One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  “It is too far for all that,” Tanta Coumba said. Her eyes clouded over. “You cannot do such a drastic thing. The big city can be a maze for a boy that has only known fields and open spaces. It will swallow you and spit you out as a different child. You must promise me you will not do this.”

  Another promise.

  “I promise I will if you do not come to change her mind.” Mor’s boldness was unfair, and his threat turned the air between them sour.

  Tanta Coumba’s smile had faded.

  “I will come,” she agreed. “But do not think it will be as easy as stirring sugar in tea.”

  Shame snaked through him for turning on her as he had, but he couldn’t think of that now. Until she came, he had to get back to his sisters and begin to convince his bàjjan they were meant to stay.

  KAI legui. How you have made us wait,” snapped Mor’s aunt when he reached the doorway of his home out of breath. “Come, come. Our bellies have been rumbling over this good-smelling groundnut sauce and rice Amina has made. You are letting it grow cold.”

  Stepping in the doorway, he stumbled on a pebble and almost skidded into the pot of food. He knew it was the last of their rice in the dish and there wouldn’t have been more if he’d ruined it. Embarrassment crawled around his collar.

  “Why are you wearing those ridiculous shoes?” His aunt stared at his feet, swimming in the well-worn leather sandals. “You’ve been stepping on your own toes since I got off the bus. You may as well go barefoot for all the good they are doing you.”

  “That’s what I said,” Fatima giggled, forgetting herself for a moment. Then she clapped her lips shut under their bàjjan’s glare.

  Mor mashed his toes against the leather.

  “Who are you to think you can settle into a man’s shoes? Now take those ridiculous things off and come sit down,” their bàjjan barked. “It won’t do to have you falling all over our skirts because you want to play at being a man.” She nodded toward Fatima and Amina, who sat on the earth floor while she sat up on the pallet.

  Her words stung like a thousand beestings, but Mor clinched his teeth together, holding his jaw closed. He wanted to shout that the sandals weren’t ridiculous, that they were his baay’s, but he said nothing. He simply turned and slid his feet out of them, and placed them with their shoes by the doorway. When he went to sit down, Fatima wedged herself close, as far away from their aunt as she could be.

  Oblivious to Fatima’s dislike, their aunt hitched up the enormous sleeves of her boubou, creating her own breeze as she sat up. “Now that we are all finally settled, how are you children? You look spindly and thin. I could mistake you for the branches of the baobab.” She looked between them, poking her lips out as if making a decision. “How old are you now?” She focused on Amina. “Nine?”

  “And a half,” Amina said, low.

  “Don’t you know you should be thick and sturdy like a baobab tree trunk by now?” Their aunt’s eyes slid up the length of Amina’s body; however, Amina did not seem uneasy.

  She probably did not shrink under their aunt’s gaze because she knew she resembled their mother in every way. A day did not go by that Mor did not hear someone tell her so. It was obvious to any who knew their parents that Amina would have their height, surpassing Mor’s. She was already growing like a reed, with long, thin arms, slender legs, and knobby elbows. Their mother had always said those were the true signs of a beauty to come. Just as a baby giraffe, awkward on its limbs at birth, grows to be elegant and majestic, their yaay knew, Amina would do the same.

  As their aunt continued to stare, Amina crouched in the dirt, scooping groundnut sauce onto the smoothed-out bed of rice in the gigantic aluminum bowl. “In the city you will become solid and stout. Each of you will.” Their bàjjan shifted her attention to Fatima, who shrank beneath it.

  “And what will we do with you?” their aunt asked, not expecting an answer. “All I’ve seen is you fluffing about, when you need to be put to work. Many would think you too young, but I do not. Although I cannot trust you will behave living under someone else’s roof, cleaning their floors and helping to prepare their meals. I must knock out your idleness first and that poisoned tongue. My brother, rest his soul, was like a cuddly bear with you. A stricter hand is needed to ensure you will be right.”

  “Yes, Bàjjan,” Amina said, nodding for Fatima.

  For a moment Mor was only half listening. He stared at Amina, but unlike Fatima, who squeezed Mor’s fingers to almost breaking, Amina kept her face expressionless as she placed the bowl in the middle of the four of them. A chunky orangey-brown sauce sat on the pile of white rice, steaming.

  While Mor had lost his appetite, Fatima had not. After a few more seconds of pouting, she released Mor’s hand and shimmied closer to the bowl. As their aunt scooped her fingers in her section of the dish, Fatima followed behind in her own. She mashed a steaming handful of rice and sauce into her palm until it was a tight-packed ball, and then she dropped it into her mouth. Soon she was asking to dig into Mor’s section, after he had gone minutes without taking a second or third bite.

  When the last grain of rice had been mopped up by Fatima’s little hand, Amina removed the bowl, chewing and swallowing her final mouthful.

  “My sister-in-law’s family will get good and fat off your cooking.” Their bàjjan scooted back, giving Amina room to pick up the dropped rice kernels one by one. “There are points you still must learn, but you are showing yourself well.” She jimmied a toothpick she’d pulled from her bag between two of her back teeth and wiggled it, making a sucking noise. Continuing to riffle through her saag, she said, “Now where is that gunpowder tea of mine?”

  As if knowing what their aunt was already about to say, Amina brought out a miniature red teapot from under the pallet. Flowers once painted on its belly had long since been devoured by black singe from constant contact with the fire. Amina placed the barada, with its warming coals, in front of her legs and waited.

  “Ah, here it is,” their bàjjan said, pulling out a bright-green tin. “This is my favorite brand. You can find nothing like it in your village market.”

  When she opened the tin, Amina reached for the loose green tea leaves, but their aunt pulled the box away.

  “Why are you, not your brother, preparing our tea?” their aunt asked. “That duty falls to the son.” She held tight to the traditions of attaaya. The teapot hovered in Amina’s hands.

  Amina looked from her bàjjan to her brother. “I prepare it sometimes. Baay did not mind.”

  Their aunt sucked at her teeth again and held the box of special gunpowder tea out to Mor. He took the teapot from Amina and squatted before the barada. He crammed a bunch of the loose green tea leaves into the child-size pot. His aunt’s full concentration was on his hand, like she was counting every leaf removed from her precious tin. Mor poured in hot water and rotated the teapot, swirling the liquid around the tea leaves. Everyone was silent as he began the ritual of tea service.

  Out of the corner of his eye Mor noticed Fatima twisting toward the doorway as her friends skipped by, giggling and screaming in the midafternoon light. Knowing her next move, he pressed his heel into her knee so she would not jump up. She looked down at his foot, then up at him. He said nothing, only shook his head, as unnoticeable as the curve of a moth’s antenna—but he knew Fatima had seen it by the slouch of her shoulders. Never stopping his tea preparation, he poured a stream of sugar from a small plastic bag into the teapot. Fatima’s body slumped further, and she shot her aunt a cold look, shoving at Mor’s heel.

  “Do you have a gunóor in your dress?” Their aunt pointed her toothpick at Fatima. A small piece of cassava leaf from their dinner dangled at the end. “Even a beetle shouldn’t make you squirm so much.”

  Fatima stared blankly at their aunt. Then her eyes darted to the dirt floor, most likely in search of the bug.

  “Why must you move about so?” their aunt continued.

  It was evident by her change in tone th
at she did not favor Fatima as much as Amina.

  “So . . .” She switched her attention back to Mor while he poured the honey-yellow sugared tea into a petite glass. It frothed when he emptied it from one glass into another, the liquid tumbling over itself. The loose leaves mixed with each pouring, becoming stronger and darker. However, it still wasn’t strong enough for a first serving. When he had emptied the frothed liquid back into the pot to steep some more, their aunt continued. “When I last spoke on the phone with your baay, he told me you’ve already memorized a few passages of the Koran.”

  Mor tensed. He knew his father had called her once every few months from the phone at the mechanic shop where he worked, but for some reason he did not like being at the heart of any discussions between them.

  “You should have been in a daara long ago. Your parents never wanted to send you away, but I think it is what you need. Some of our country’s greatest leaders have gone to these schools. They will teach you piety. Soon you will learn all six thousand two hundred thirty-six verses.”

  She said the exact number as if knowing it was a badge of pride.

  Mor tried to calculate in his head how long that could possibly take. He knew of boys who had left their families when they were five or six years old and had not returned from Koranic school until they were thirteen or even sixteen. A part of him was curious about the schools, especially since Cheikh had left, but another part of him was glad that, like some of his other friends’ parents, his had decided to send him to the village school and have him learn his verses at the mosque. His friend Oumar had heard from his cousin who had lived in Dakar that not all daaras were the same. Where some serignes were kind, others were not. “You never know what you’ll get until you get there,” he’d said. Mor worried about what that meant for him if his aunt got her way.

  She slid the toothpick between her thumb and finger, wiping it clean, as she looked around their sparse room. “It will not take long to pack your things, I should think. You can leave the few dishes and bowls. You will not need them. I know of someone who may want to move his family in here.”

  “But Baay told the elders he was leaving it to me.” Mor hated the catch in his throat.

  “We have already discussed this. That will not happen. There is nothing much here of value anyway.” She scanned the room as if it held no history, or memories, or laughter.

  Mor couldn’t imagine anyone else living here except for his family. His father had built their barak with his own baay when he was around Mor’s age. He had taken pride in every second of their work. Mor’s bàjjan should have remembered that, like he remembered making shadow puppets on the far wall with his baay where the boy chased the lion and won. He could still hear his mother’s and sisters’ laughter in his ears as they’d watched from the pallet, holding up the lampe tempête with cardboard blocking out all but a small circle of light. All their good memories had taken place in that one-room home. Mor looked at the flap swinging over the doorway, wondering what was keeping Tanta Coumba.

  “We will need to be ready for the morning bus in two days’ time,” their aunt continued. “Otherwise we will have to wait days for another, and I need to get back to the city.”

  “Couldn’t we stay behind?” Mor began.

  “Your baay was in a coma for a week. It has already been too long for you children to be on your own. What kind of bàjjan would I be if I let it continue?”

  Mor watched her. He wondered where her worry was coming from. She had shown her lack of concern by not taking the first ndiaga ndiaye to Lat Mata when someone from the clinic called about her brother’s accident. There had been three buses since then, and she had missed two of them. What had she refused to miss instead of seeing her brother? But that was not the question he asked. He knew he could not wait for Tanta Coumba any longer. He would have to convince his bàjjan himself.

  “We would be fine . . . I mean, we have been fine,” Mor rattled, not taking a breath. He knew it was disrespectful to press, but he had to. With all her plans, this was his only chance. “We’ve had enough food, coal, and butane for cooking and the lampe tempête. We’ve needed nothing more. A-a-a-nd . . . ,” he stuttered, thinking fast, “I’m sure I can get a job down at Baay’s old mechanic shop. Mamadou said I am always welcome.” Before she could cut him off, he continued. “They used to tell me they would always have a place for me. I was helpful when I was there. And I’m sure there are other things I could do as well. Amina is smart and needs to be in school. Not just sweeping someone else’s floors. She got accepted into a fancy one in Shayna. Amina, show her the papers. Baay already gave them money; he wants her to go.” He swallowed hard and glanced at his sister. He was sure her lip turned up in a smile as quick as the flap of a butterfly’s wing.

  “What is this ridiculous talk?” their aunt asked. She leaned forward on the pallet, her hand on her hip. “You cannot run a household. And I’m sure Fallou did not pay all the fees. So now the deposit is probably lost. Amina cannot afford to go to such a school. Besides, that is almost an hour’s walk from here. You would not have money for the bus, and you’d never be able to keep up with the fees. No, absolutely not.”

  “We would do it together,” Amina spoke up. “We would help each other. And I do not mind the walk. I have walked farther. I have already been cooking and cleaning since Yaay died. And I have taken care of Tima.”

  “I can take care of myself now too,” Fatima added. “And Jeeg.” The family goat lay outside, near the doorway, not allowed inside.

  “Baay wants us to stay together. He told me so,” Mor said.

  “When has he told you this? There was no time,” their aunt said, disbelieving.

  Mor thought of his promise and his father’s words on the wind, knowing she would not believe him. He wished his baay would join him.

  There is no need to wish, I am here. Look to our flock and find your strength. You are not alone. You have not been abandoned.

  Mor sat up taller. His baay had really come when he called. Mor squared his shoulders, not giving up. “He is telling me now.” His bàjjan’s eyebrow arched. “We can take care of each other.”

  “That makes no difference anyway,” their aunt said. “You are not staying here. And you will not continue to question my word.” Her voice was flat and strong.

  “I told you, Auntie, we are not alone,” Mor pressed, encouraged by his sisters and his baay’s whispers.

  “Enough.” Their bàjjan wagged her finger at him. “I want to hear no more. Besides, I assume you have only a little money from your baay. What will you do when that runs out? You truly think Mamadou will pay you a man’s wage? What will you eat then? Would you go be beggars in the street, or hope your neighbors would continue to feed you when they have families of their own? What will you do? Will your hand always be out—asking?”

  Mor’s shoulders sagged, the fight seeping out of him like a deflating balloon. His eyes darted to Amina, but she looked away. Guilt twisted around him. The money was already gone. The last two days he’d felt the weight of the lost pouch in his pocket as if its ghost were nuzzled against his leg.

  “He will. I was learning,” Mor said. “He, Idy, and Mighty Yacine said I am fast and smart. Even at Baay’s burial they told others that when I passed.” Mor glanced at the door again, wondering if Tanta Coumba was mad enough at him not to come.

  His aunt’s laugh was almost a cackle. “But they will not fill your pockets with coins. You will just be scurrying around whenever they have a need. And if not that, what? You have nothing worthy to trade.” She puffed out her sleeve. “You are but a little boy no taller than a goat on hind legs.”

  “I will learn as Baay did,” Mor blurted out.

  “Hmph.” A rush of air left her mouth along with spittle. “It took him years. You do not have such time.” A smothered chuckle rested deep in her throat. “How tongues will flap if I allow you to become another wayward boy running in the streets, up to nothing good. No, in the city you will lea
rn the ways of Allah. And that knowledge will last you throughout your life.”

  Mor did not respond. He looked down at his slender fingers, bare of calluses, unlike his father’s heavily weathered hands—a working man’s hands. Baay, I am not enough, he thought, hoping his father would aid him again.

  And as if he’d heard him, help arrived.

  DIEYNABA, is that you I hear?” A shadow spread across the doorway.

  Everyone turned toward the silhouette as it became more defined. A hand the color of chestnuts pulled the tarp aside.

  “Coumba Gueye!” Mor’s aunt sprung up in excitement. The closed tin of tea leaves she’d been protecting like a guard over precious jewels rolled off her lap when she stood. She jammed her finger toward it for Amina to pick up; then she beckoned her childhood friend inside. “It has been too long. It should not take death to bring us back together.”

  “I am where I have always been. You are the one who has become a rolling pebble, my friend, traveling away from your beginnings.” Although the words were woven with sweetness, Mor was sure his aunt felt the slight bite by the way her smile tightened. When Tanta Coumba leaned forward to kiss Mor’s aunt once on each cheek, baby Zal’s head flopped into view. He was strapped against her back in a batik fabric, sleeping peacefully. Little flowers of spit bloomed on his lips as he slept.

  “Oh, what a precious child,” Mor’s aunt said, spying baby Zal over Tanta Coumba’s shoulder, “who does not trouble his mother when she visits.”

  Mor watched the women talking as old friends. His bàjjan was quite pretty when she smiled and giggled. Her deep-set eyes sparkled, and her pronounced cheekbones appeared as if they stored cherries when they rose. Getting Tanta Coumba had been a great idea. Her cheerful spirit might help Mor unfreeze his cold, cold aunt. The women’s hearty laughter and Tanta Coumba’s presence eased some of the anxious grumbling in his belly. It triggered memories of when Mor’s mother was alive. When they used to laugh and joke in the vegetable patch, chasing him and Cheikh around.