Tanta Coumba glanced down at Mor and his sisters. A bright smile was on her face. Mor stowed his memory and dipped his head. Amina made room for Tanta Coumba to sit next to their aunt on the raised pallet.
“Again, I am sorry about Fallou,” Tanta Coumba said. She cupped their aunt’s hands in her own. “He was a kindhearted man and will be greatly missed.”
“Yes, a tragedy for sure.”
Tanta Coumba let their aunt’s hands slip from hers and took the small square of cardboard Mor held out to help fan flies away from her and her son. Baby Zal’s head lobbed to the side, trapped in sleep, unconscious of the chatter.
Mor knew it wasn’t proper for him and his sisters to remain in the room as Tanta Coumba talked of her childhood friends, including their aunt, so they bowed their heads, but still leaned in close, pretending not to listen.
“Do you remember when your brother took Awa out in that old rowboat?” Tanta Coumba asked their bàjjan.
“Yes, yes.” Their aunt’s scowl lifted. “When they were about eight or so years older than Mor now.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” Tanta Coumba went on, chuckling before she could get the words out. “And he kissed her. No warning. No permission. And plop, she dived straight into the water and swam for shore.”
Their bàjjan shook her head. “In her beautiful new boubou, no less.”
“Warning him. Saying: ‘These lips are not yours, Fallou Fall. . . .’ ” Tanta Coumba waved her finger in front of her as Amina, Fatima, and Mor huddled together, trying to hide smiles behind their hands. Even Jeeg had peeked her head under the door tarp to hear.
“ ‘You have not yet shown yourself worthy of them,’ ” their bàjjan continued where Tanta Coumba had left off. “ ‘You will need to do much better than a rickety little rowboat and a few honey-sweetened words to show me that. . . .’ ”
Mor and his sisters bit their lips not to giggle over the tale they shouldn’t have been hearing. Tanta Coumba’s words reminded Mor that the painted brand on Jeeg’s hip—a red circle over wavy blue lines, his family marking, which everyone in Lat Mata could recognize—had come about because of that day. His father was represented by the passion of the day’s setting red sun, while their mother had swum like the feisty blue waves.
Tanta Coumba’s memories had Mor’s aunt weeping with laughter, each mention of her brother and sister-in-law chipping away at her rough edges somehow. Now Tanta Coumba patted their aunt’s thigh. “Your brother was a rare gem.”
“Indeed,” their bàjjan agreed.
“Like their yaay,” Tanta Coumba added.
“I cannot believe such misfortune has befallen this house again,” Mor’s aunt said, staring off. “And I do not think the authorities have even caught that dim-witted fool who caused the accident. People say he had at least thirty live chickens strapped to that moto.” She rocked her head and then refocused on her friend. “Didn’t he know some of them were bound to get loose, clucking and carrying on as they do? They say if the truck had been a little farther down the road, all would have been spared. But alas, that was not Allah’s will.”
Tanta Coumba glanced at Mor and his sisters. “It is a shame. But let us not speak of this now. I’m sure you have happier news from the big city.”
Mor’s aunt followed Tanta Coumba’s gaze. “Yes. You are right, although I’m sure they have heard all of this before.”
“Even still, it is better not to pick at a wound that has just begun to heal,” Tanta Coumba suggested.
“But we must remember scabs are picked over all the time and they heal just fine. Tougher even.”
“But they do leave scars,” Tanta Coumba said firmly, not backing down. “Besides, you seem well informed. There is little left to say.”
Tanta Coumba cradled their aunt’s hands in her own, stroking them. Mor wondered if she wanted to shake their aunt’s whole body instead. He knew he did.
Concern raced through Tanta Coumba’s eyes as she watched Mor and his sisters. She leaned forward, handing Mor a tissue for Fatima.
“What will happen now?” Tanta Coumba asked. “To the children, I mean. What are your plans for them?”
Mor’s back straightened when his aunt’s attention returned to him. He concentrated hard on the time-consuming preparation of the three-round tea service, pouring a little in a glass to test it.
“I am taking them to the city with me in two days.”
“So soon?” Tanta Coumba looked between her friend, Mor, and his sisters. “They have not had a moment to grieve.”
“They can do that just as well in Dakar.” Mor’s bàjjan shifted her position and ironed out the fabric of her boubou with the palms of her hands.
Tanta Coumba stared deep into Mor’s eyes. He hoped she could see his hurt, as he had been able to see Fatima’s.
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Naba, why are you whipping away like the wind? I’m just getting to see you after so many years.”
“I am also needed elsewhere. It is a time of great sadness all around. My closest friend has lost her daughter in childbirth, and she cannot seem to find air to breathe.”
Mor thought of himself and his sisters. Did she not care about their air?
“I intend to be away for at least three months and need to settle Amina with her host family and Mor at the daara before I depart.”
Tanta Coumba nodded. “Could they not all go with you? So you can heal together at this sad time?”
Their aunt looked their way. “I am not completely insensitive. I thought of that first. But having three children about might be too much after losing your own. I have made suitable arrangements for Mor and Amina.”
“And what of Tima?” Tanta Coumba reached down and tickled Fatima’s neck, causing her to cave in her shoulders and smile.
“She will have to come with me,” their aunt said. “I have no other choice. She will need to be quiet and out of the way.” Their bàjjan raised an eyebrow at Fatima.
At this, Fatima’s smile vanished. Her focus zipped to her brother. He could read her thoughts once more. Being alone with their aunt probably twisted her insides into knots. She didn’t want to go. Even though she would be fed, clothed, and taken care of, Mor knew she would mostly be ignored.
Finding another stitch of courage, he said to Tanta Coumba, “I have told her we can stay here, at least until her return.”
Mor’s aunt stared at him. The line of her mouth tightened. “I have already told you. That will not happen. I cannot care for two households.”
“I told you. I can care for us,” Mor added, not backing down. “And Mina and Tima are willing to help.”
Their aunt tsked. “Nonsense. I have already said no, and I detest repeating myself. Now stop begging for what will never be.” She flicked her fingers back and forth, as if flinging Mor’s hopes away.
When she turned her body away from him, signaling the end to the conversation, Mor turned to Tanta Coumba. “You don’t mind looking in on us, do you?” Mor said boldly. “We won’t be any trouble to you.” He held his breath, waiting for her to answer, but his aunt barked at him first.
“How dare you ask her such a thing. Did Fallou never teach you your manners? We were not raised this way.”
“He is fine, Dieynaba,” Tanta Coumba interjected. “I should be scolding you.” Her words were light but firm. “Do you not remember? They will not be alone. There is a village around them.”
Now it was their aunt’s turn to be silent.
“You’ve been gone a long time, Dieynaba, but I know you have not forgotten how we take care of our own.” The line of her lips curved up. “I do not have much, with three mouths to feed, but what I do have I can share with Awa’s children.”
To Mor, the sound of his mother’s name was like the warmth of animal hide.
“I cannot ask this of you,” Mor’s aunt protested. “This is my problem, not yours.”
“They are never a problem.” Tanta Coumba winked at Mor.
; “We will bring you no burdens, Bàjjan, while you are miles away,” Mor added. “And you will have no worries about Fatima turning dust under your skirts.” He could see the thought spinning behind his aunt’s eyes, especially at the mention of not having to tote a mischievous Fatima along. “Tanta Coumba will check on us. And Amina and I will make sure Fatima has all she needs.” He felt Amina’s steely gaze upon him but did not turn her way.
His aunt sighed and a sliver of hope rose inside him.
“I guess a little less than three months time is not too long if you are looked in on.” It was her turn to clasp Tanta Coumba’s hands. “You are a true blessing, my friend. I am comforted to know your barak is only a stone’s throw away.”
Even though Fatima squealed at the news, Mor and Amina made no sounds. Calm filled Mor, though he was sure Amina would have plenty to say once their aunt was gone.
Regardless, almost three months was a start.
Tanta Coumba stood. “I’m glad this has all been decided. And I expect to see you and your sisters, Mor Fall. Do not have me chasing after you, like I do with Zal, and do not let me or your bàjjan down,” she said. “Awa, Fallou, and your bàjjan are entrusting me with their hearts.” She placed her hand over her own heart. “I will leave you now.”
“Won’t you stay and have the tea Mor has prepared?” Mor’s aunt reached up to hold Tanta Coumba’s hand. “I cannot promise it will be the best that has ever passed your lips, with his careless watch over the pot.” Her gaze cut to Mor and then went back to Tanta Coumba. “But it is a special blend I bring from the city. You must try—”
“Of course,” Tanta Coumba said, unable to refuse. Her eyes twinkled when she smiled at Mor. “But afterward you need time alone as a family. And by then my daughters will be waiting.”
Mor poured tea into the miniature glasses and set them on a plastic tray, offering her the first sips of strong liquid. Tanta Coumba tipped her head at him.
Mor’s aunt reached for the second steaming glass, dragging it across the lip of the tray to scrape off the spilled tea and bits of soaked tea leaves. She slurped it, testing the taste, then swallowed.
“Nekhna.” Their aunt took a long sip, letting the tea’s foam slip into her mouth. “Nice and strong. Not too sweet. But speaking of sweet things, I almost forgot.” She reached for her large bag and drew it into her lap. She rummaged through it. “These are for each of you.” She pulled out three clear plastic bags, each tied in a knot. They bulged with different-flavored hard candies. “I think some even have a soft chocolate inside.”
Fatima smiled at her aunt for the first time. Her one dimple even showed in her right cheek. She looked quickly at Mor, then back at the bags of candy. But she did not move to take one.
“These are from Papa, an old friend of your baay’s. I told him it was too much, but he insisted.” She shook the bags. “It is ridiculous to give children some of the best tàngal in Senegal. One sweet pop each would have been enough.”
You deserve more than one sweet pop, my son. You deserve a mound. You have done well.
Mor’s smile broke his lips apart. He was keeping his promise.
AFTER a night filled with their aunt’s snores, Mor and his sisters knelt, quiet as ladybirds, while a stream of their bàjjan’s childhood friends and their neighbors chanted siggilen ndigaale in their ears, grasping each of their hands and praying they would overcome their grief. Mourners dropped jaxaal into a calabash bowl near their aunt’s feet. The money would help buy food to prepare a meal for their guests.
“Yes, yes. Fallou and Awa’s children are strong.”
Mor listened to his aunt say this over and over as each person passed. He wondered if she believed it, or if she was simply happy to have them out of her meulfeu’s ruffles for a while longer.
Her bag lay at the edge of the raised pallet, close to the doorway, like it had when she first arrived, as if she wanted it ready for a quick escape.
“Now remember to show respect to this barak. And your family name,” their bàjjan said after all their neighbors had left. “When I leave, you represent the family.”
They huddled around a bowl filled with an evening treat of lakh, before their aunt’s morning departure. Fatima licked every bit of the soured milk, vanilla-flavored sugar, dried coconut, and millet mixture off her knuckles as their bàjjan spoke.
“I do not want to hear you’ve brought any dark shadows to this door. Listen to each other, do right, and keep each other well. Dear Tanta Coumba will keep a steady gaze on you, and I will call from time to time. So do not stray, and do not make Tanta Coumba’s temples pulse with worry.” She reached into the folds of her meulfeu for a purse hung over her arm and pulled franc notes from her pocket. It was more than Mor had ever held, but not more than might be needed to fill a roaring truck with gas. They would have to eat sparingly for it to last. “Oh,” she sighed, “I don’t know if I’m doing right leaving you children behind.”
“We are not alone.” Mor got to his feet. He did not want her to change her mind. “Everyone you greeted today will watch over us. We will be fine, Auntie. Baay wanted us to be here.” And Baay and Yaay are here with us still, he thought, but dared not say.
He gulped down his breath when her eyes pierced his, as if she were trying to reach into his thoughts.
“Here. Keep this well hidden.” She folded the notes into his cupped hands, covering them with her own. “Before I change my mind. This should help you buy what you need for a little while. Until you find work. Since you want to grow into a man so soon.” She said it as if she were testing him. Like she was waiting for him to change his mind and beg her to take them with her. But he didn’t. He was determined to take care of his sisters and stay. He knew their aunt was only thinking of the summer, but he was thinking forever.
“Jërëjëf,” he and Amina thanked her as Fatima dragged her finger over the tops of her bottom teeth.
Early the next morning their aunt summoned Mor and Amina for morning prayers, even though Amina and Fatima were still not expected to pray. Although Mor was considered young as well, he had risen each morning with his baay and wanted to continue the tradition. Once they were done, they set off to meet the ndiaga ndiaye that would take their bàjjan back to her home. Although they still had a few hours before its arrival, she wanted to leave the barak early so as not to take a sliver of a chance that she might miss it. Her need to leave seemed as great as, if not greater than, Mor’s desire to stay.
Mor pushed his amulet higher up on his arm, giving thanks to Allah for its protection. He knew he would need it in the coming days and months. Swirls of Wolof floated around them and whizzed past their ears as people chatted loudly about everything from the weather, crops, and fish to soccer. His aunt fanned herself, pacing back and forth across the dirt.
As the ndiaga ndiaye bounced down the road in a cloud of dust, two other people waited along with their aunt. One carried a fat bundle on her head tied with cloth, while the other held two squawking chickens under his arms. When a dark hand reached out for his aunt’s bag, Mor passed it over to him, saying good-bye to his bàjjan as she was hoisted into the rear of the bus after the other woman, since the front held only a door for the driver. As the bus chugged away, their aunt popped her head out one of the long passenger windows and yelled, “Remember, no dark shadows upon our family door.”
Within seconds dust and a grunting engine gobbled up her words and she was gone.
They were alone. For the first time in days Mor felt lighthearted and happy to be so.
Back at the barak stillness was all around them, and Mor found it strange that he welcomed the silence. He was glad to be rid of their aunt’s rustling sleeves, clipped remarks, and sideways glances, which at times were louder in meaning than her words.
Inside their cramped room, however, it did not take long for Mor to grow restless. There were no mourners. There was no chatter. And there was no Baay.
He knew his father did not like idle hands, and neit
her did Mor at the moment. He hopped up, but before he could even take two steps toward the door, Amina turned to him, peeking out from behind her favorite book. Her only book.
“Are you leaving?”
Mor nodded. “To see Mamadou at Baay’s old shop. I want to ask if he has a place for me now.”
“I hope it will bring the news you want,” Amina said, looking back at her book.
Mor slid into his father’s sandals and was about to head for the door, feeling the sun shining bright on him.
“Maybe you should go barefoot or cut off the backs?” Amina added, flipping the page. “There is a knife over there.”
“Cut his shoes?” Clouds covered his sunshine. He would never destroy anything of his baay’s. He looked down. The sandals were large tan platters under his feet. He could see where constant use and pressure had worn down the rubber soles, while dirt and sweat had created an outline of his father’s foot in the darkened leather. Mor’s feet were ant prints lost within an elephant’s gigantic tread. “I will grow.”
“Not fast enough for them to fit today or tomorrow.”
Mor ignored her and pushed aside the ragged tarp over the doorway and crossed onto the dirt path. Chickens pecked at spilled grains near his feet, and three girls sang, playing hand games, while two women sat on tires half-buried in the sand. Mor greeted them and others along the path, asking of their families, but everyone kept bringing the conversation to the death of his baay. Each time he heard his father’s name, new hurt formed like a bruise, too tender to touch. Soon he was ducking down side paths to avoid anyone coming his way. He did not have time to be sad; he had to fulfill part of his plan.
Over him, blackbirds flew in an arrowhead formation, almost as if pointing toward Mamadou’s yard. Bits of conversations in the distance wafted past his ears. The air was breezeless, and the dry heat of the summer sun pressed down on him. Mor turned down a tight path between a few of the homes, a shortcut to the main road and the market center of Lat Mata. When he tried to jump a small puddle of morning wash water, he came out of one of his shoes. As he hopped back and bent over to retrieve it, he heard his name.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 6