“Mor Fall, is that you?”
Still leaned over, he peeked between his knees and saw Tanta Coumba framed in a window at the barak across the path.
“Why are you sneaking past my door?” Her eyes twinkled as she watched him.
Mor straightened and nestled his foot back into his father’s sandal. “I am not sneaking. I am going to Mamadou’s.”
“But you weren’t going to stop. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she disappeared from the window, then reappeared at her front door a second later. Pulling back the curtain, she came onto the path. “Well, you are here now. Can you spare an old mother a few moments?” She was ushering him to her door before he could answer.
Mor glanced in the direction he’d been heading, longing to get started. But knowing it was because of her that he was even still here, he let her lead him inside.
“Did your bàjjan get safely away?” she asked and welcomed him into her home.
“Yes, early.” He shuffled through the doorway. Aware his feet had a captive audience.
“Where are you going in those shoes?” She chuckled, then fell silent. “Ah, they are Fallou’s, aren’t they?”
Heat tingled under his cheeks. Standing under her gaze, he felt like a tiny child playing at being grown.
She placed a soft hand on his back and rubbed it in a gentle circle. “I still have my grandmother’s old teapot. The handle is missing and it will scorch your hand even through a cloth, but it reminds me of her and I would never think of making my tea in anything else. Sometimes we need these things around.”
Since Cheikh had left, Mor had not been inside for quite a while, but it was the same. Their home was larger than his family’s, with three small rooms and a slight side garden. It was made from smoothed mud blocks.
When Tanta Coumba dropped the mustard-colored curtain over the door, a golden light replaced the bright morning sun that pushed through the entryway. Incense smoke tumbled in the space. It was the familiar scent of thiouraye. It released a smell that had not perfumed his own home since his yaay’s death. In a sea of cloth, on a pallet in the corner, baby Zal slept.
“I’ve some bread and hazelnut-cocoa spread for you and your sisters,” Tanta Coumba said. “I was going to bring it by or have Naza do it, but maybe you could take it, since you are out earlier than I thought.”
Mor listened but couldn’t hear Naza or Tanta Coumba’s other daughter, Oumy, rustling about.
“Ah, but where is my mind?” She tapped the side of her head wrap. “You said you were off to Mamadou’s. I don’t want to pin you down.”
He did not want to be rude after all she had done.
“I can take them.”
“Not in those shoes, you can’t.”
Mor slouched, wishing he could bury the shoes in the sand.
“Don’t worry, you will grow into them. But for now I think I might have something more your size. Kai legui.” Mor followed, as she’d asked, through another doorway to a smaller area where he had spent a lot of time. It was more of a narrow hallway than an actual room. It was Cheikh’s, though. And it looked exactly as it had the day he’d left two years before. “I miss him more each day he is away. But when I come in here, it is like he is home.” Her fingers brushed over a pair of his folded jeans. Mor missed his friend too, almost as much as he missed his baay.
He looked around at the glossy photos of Herculean laamb wrestlers that were stuck to the wall next to cutouts of American athletes slamming basketballs into hoops and French rappers posing in sunglasses and baseball caps.
“I can still remember the time my Cheikh fell out of that big baobab and you carried him all the way here on your back, refusing to leave him out in the fields alone. The two of you were like salt and sea. Inseparable.”
Mor remembered that day. Cheikh had cried, saying he thought animals were rustling in the branches and that he could not bear to be by himself, even for a second, while Mor went for help. When he was safe at home and his broken leg was bandaged, Cheikh had sworn Mor to secrecy about his tears, and Mor had never told. Cheikh was not only Mor’s friend; he was the closest thing he had to a brother.
“I wish it were still so.” Tanta Coumba drew her hand under Mor’s chin and lifted it to face her. “But it is hard to be so far away.” Her hand fell away from his chin, and she picked up a faded pillowcase and hugged it, rocking.
“I hardly hear from him anymore. After two years he’s too busy to send word to his mother. And friends in the city have heard nothing of him either. I wish he could have stayed here. Gone to school here with you.” She glanced around. Her last words were almost a whisper. Like a secret not meant to tell. Even though Mor already knew it was Cheikh’s father who had wanted him to go—to become strong in the city.
After his father had taken his second wife, he had moved away from Lat Mata instead of keeping his two families close, like most men with more than one wife. On the day Cheikh left, dragging his feet, begging not to be taken, his father had closed his ears to Tanta Coumba’s requests to have Cheikh stay.
“His baay has no news either. That is what troubles me. Because his father has ties with many people there.” She placed her cheek against Cheikh’s pillow for the briefest of seconds and sniffed it. “Sometimes I swear I can still smell his scent lingering in the sheets, as if he were just here. It is strongest on Fridays after I have spent a morning at the market. You would think he had just been lying here.” She placed the pillow back on his pallet.
Although Mor had not heard from Cheikh either since he left for the daara, Mor had heard whispers about how the city could change people, twisting them, and not always for the better. He wondered if that had happened to his friend. The worry etched across Tanta Coumba’s face said she might fear something like that too.
“Enough of this sad talk.” She clapped her hands together, as if snapping herself out of her sadness. “I’m sure he is busy in prayer and will send word soon. Now let me stitch up my lips and find you what we came here for.”
A pair of sneakers and a set of sandals stood in a line at the far end of the floor mat, and Mor wondered, but did not ask, if those were the shoes she was searching for.
“I know he has a pair that are too tight,” she said, reaching over the line of shoes to pull up the fuzzy blanket tucked around the pallet. “That boy is like a sprout. His father says we should wrap his feet in cloth instead of paying for something new. But he continues to buy them instead of coming to see his son.” Her last words were heavy, weighing her a little. “Here I go again, breaking that stitch.” She raised the corner of the bed mat and reached underneath. Mor rushed forward to help her. There were piles of magazines stacked under the pallet, with a pair of gray sneakers wedged in the corner next to them. “Here we go,” she said, jerking one free. As she did so, a corner of an unmistakable turquoise-and-ruby-colored cloth with meandering lines of shimmering gold paint peeked from behind the pallet, then slipped out of sight as the pallet shifted. Mor’s eyes widened and his fingers reached forward. He nearly dropped the mattress on Tanta Coumba’s head as he tried to grab for the cloth.
“Sorry,” he said, lifting the cover higher.
“Ah, you are caught.” Tanta Coumba snatched the frayed shoelace of the other sneaker. “Here it is. I think these will fit you just fine. Give them a try,” she said as Mor’s attention was on the space by the wall. Where he was certain he had seen a cloth pouch peeking at him like a field mouse peering out from between blades of grass before it darts back under cover. She held the shoes for Mor, waiting for him to drop the pallet. But he couldn’t draw his eyes away from where he’d spied the cloth. Then he felt the mattress and its weight separate from his hands. Tanta Coumba raised it and let it fall. She patted the edge of Cheikh’s bed, beckoning Mor to sit next to her.
Even more than feeling strange about being in Cheikh’s space or on Cheikh’s pallet, Mor felt confused by what he thought he’d seen under his old friend’s mattress. Mor found it hard to co
ncentrate. Maybe it was not . . . Like him and Cheikh, their mothers had shared everything—pots, seeds, lotions, and folds of cloth. That’s it, he thought. It has to be. They shared that cloth. There can be no other explanation. But the thought would not rest, like an overturned beetle trying to right itself. It kicked and kicked at Mor’s brain.
He glanced up at Tanta Coumba and paused. Even though her eyes were bright and open, Mor was certain the dark patches under them were caused by a storm of worry. Keeping his thoughts as his own, he sat next to her and pulled on the shoes.
“There,” she said once he had them on. “Good, yes?”
Mor nodded. “They fit very well,” he said, not letting on that they were a bit big. At least his feet did not swim in them as they had in his father’s sandals, which he picked up off the floor mat. “They are perfect. Jërëjëf.”
“You are most welcome. I’m glad we had them to give.” Patting her hand against the bed mat, she got to her feet. “I won’t keep you any longer. I know young men like you and Cheikh do not want to be smothered under their mothers anymore. . . .” Her words dropped off. Then she cupped his chin in her hand. “You are so much like her. With that high, noble forehead and those piercing black eyes. And who could deny the resemblance in your smile? I miss that smile when it disappears.” She let go of his face, though she still appeared stuck on her memory. “Have you seen her again?”
Mor shook his head no, though he wished he had.
“I miss her.” Tanta Coumba rocked her head as if dislodging the memory, then turned toward the doorway and tucked back the curtain before stepping into the next room.
Mor lingered by the bed. His eyes were fixed on the far corner, where the turquoise-and-ruby-colored cloth with the golden lines was trapped.
“You sure you don’t want to pull off a corner of bread or have a cup of powdered milk before you go?” she asked, suddenly reappearing in the doorway.
“No. I’m fine,” he said, glancing back at the ruffled corner of the blanket. “I ate, but I’m sure Mina and Tima will come later.”
“Very well.” She turned back to the front room of her home, waiting for Mor. “I will leave it for them to carry for your afternoon meal.”
Mor left Cheikh’s room, looking at the bed mat one last time. When he stepped out into the daylight, Tanta Coumba followed behind him. “Do not be a stranger. I expect to see you each day before mosquitos nip at dusk.” She scrunched her fingers in his hair for a second, like his mother used to do, then let her hand fall. “It is always a blessing to see the face of one of Awa’s children.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mor said. “I will see you again tomorrow.”
“Incha’Allah.” She waved.
Indeed, Mor told himself, hoping it would also be God’s will that he should have another chance to take a look behind Cheikh’s bed for his mother’s nafa.
MOR’S thoughts were trapped by images of the cloth wedged behind Cheikh’s pallet; otherwise, he would have skipped down the dirt road, excited about his new shoes. Although the sneakers were not brand new, they were the first pair Mor had ever owned. He was usually given rubber flip-flops or someone’s outgrown sandals.
Never sneakers.
Whenever his yaay had taken him to the tables full of people’s secondhand clothes and shoes at the market, she’d always tsked when he eyed a pair with gleaming white leather, saying, “What good are those to you? They will be covered with dirt and your feet will be hot in minutes. They are a waste.”
Mor had always frowned, thinking of a hundred reasons why they weren’t. But now he glanced down at the light-gray running shoes with white racing stripes down each side. Besides a few little scuffs on the front ridges, a frayed shoelace, and a small tear near the little toe of the right shoe, they looked like new. Mor would have to stuff a plastic bag or newspaper in the toes so his feet would not slip around, but they were already a far better fit than his father’s sandals. Wearing them, he could hop, jump, and sprint faster and higher than he ever had before. Cheikh’s old sneakers were the closest things to perfection Mor had ever worn on his feet. He was sure they were a sign things would work out at the mechanic shop.
As he approached the shop, he squeezed his baay’s sandals against his palm. Even though grief now coated most of his memories of the place, Mor’s greatest wish at that moment was that the shop where his baay had taught him so much still had a place for him under the hoods of the hulking trucks. Being a part of everything there was like how Amina felt about school and books. He used to spend every minute that he didn’t have a soccer ball cradled to his foot surrounded by trucks, grease, and tools. For him, learning to fix engines was something he wanted to do forever. He could never imagine saying the same about school. He liked it, and would miss being with his friends all day, but he could always find them on the soccer field. The mechanic shop was where he wanted to be more than anywhere else.
He smoothed down his shirt and glanced at his new sneakers one more time. He was certain they were going to bring him luck.
Before he even reached the stick fence, the heavy beats of mbalax gyrated against the air from a radio hung on the side mirror of a rusted truck. Mor stopped and stared as Mamadou, the shop owner, and his two best workers, Idy and Mighty Yacine, a stout woman who could probably lift a full-grown man over her head and throw him a mile, suspended an engine on a sturdy tree branch with a heavy linked chain. A young man Mor did not know steered a 4x4 truck in neutral, with one hand on the wheel, as he walked alongside it, until it was under the branch. The hood of the vehicle stood up, mouth open, waiting for the engine like a crocodile ready to snap at a swooping bird.
The morning sun beat down on their heads, and Mamadou wiped his forehead with a grease-stained rag. When he saw Mor coming, he grinned, a silver cap on his front tooth.
“Ah, what a pleasant sight to see Fallou’s shadow.” He nodded, shaking hands like Mor was one of the customers who came to his shop. The rippled tin walls were decorated with patches of rust. “What brings you to my door?”
The shop yard didn’t actually have a door, only a few tall sticks strung together to act as an entrance. His shop’s number was painted in white on one of the makeshift tin walls that rattled with the breeze.
“I came to see if you could use an assistant,” Mor said.
Idy and Mighty Yacine held the engine still, mouthing Alaikum salam in greeting. They had both worked alongside Mor’s baay, but another worker thin as a piece of barbed wire, Mor did not recognize. He snickered a bit when he looked in Mor’s direction. Mor ignored him, going on to say, “I would not be in the way, and need to work to care for my sisters.”
Mamadou’s smile faded. His cell phone rang in his pocket. He tossed it to Mighty Yacine. “I’m sorry,” he continued, “but I’ve already hired Khalifa. He could never take your baay’s place, but I needed another set of big, strong hands.” Looking at Khalifa, Mor didn’t think his hands were big or strong. “But even still,” Mamadou went on. “I couldn’t be responsible for your safety. There are too many heavy machines around. I would hold my breath, worried without my old friend, your baay, here watching over you.”
Mor wanted to say his father watched over him all the time, but he knew Mamadou well enough to know this would not convince him.
“I understand, but I promise I can be helpful.” Mamadou was already shaking his head before Mor could finish. “I’ve learned a lot here and I am interested in learning more.”
“I’m sorry, my boy, but it just won’t do.”
The one Mamadou called Khalifa eyed Mor up and down, almost as if Mor were competition for his job, but he seemed to dismiss the thought as quickly as he’d had it, rolling his eyes. Khalifa twisted the cap off a bottle of motor oil and poured it into the engine of another truck to the side of Mor. The truck itself towered over Mor, with its thick black tires the size of boulders. The oil gurgled and glugged as it went into the belly of the engine. Mor stared at Khalifa, then at the bottle of oil he
used.
“But you said you would always have a place for me. I remember,” Mor said, even though he knew Mamadou’s mind was decided. He pushed his shoulders back and demanded the tears pushing at his eyes to go away. He refused to show his sadness. If one tear fell, they would all fall.
Mighty Yacine and Idy nodded in agreement.
“You did say that, boss,” Mighty Yacine said.
“I know I did,” Mamadou said, wiping sweat on his forearm, never taking his eyes off Mor. “But I meant when you were a bit older. When you could manage on your own.”
Mor wanted to say he could manage now, but he didn’t. Instead he stepped away, straightening his shoulders, and asked, “But isn’t that oil much too light for that diesel engine?” He tilted his head toward the truck Khalifa hung over. “If that truck driver motors away with that rumbling in his engine’s belly, he will soon hear a rattling noise and be perched on the side of the road.” Mor noticed Mighty Yacine and Idy look over at the engine, then grin his way. Mighty Yacine winked. Mor didn’t wait for a response, but told Mamadou good-bye. He was almost out of earshot when he heard the thwack of Mamadou’s rag against Khalifa’s neck.
“You stupid boy. You could have ruined it all with your careless ways. You better be glad you are my sister’s dim-witted son. Otherwise, I would not have you turning my business upside down.”
Once Mor had headed down an alley by the back of another business, away from curious eyes, he stopped, his head hung low. That was his only plan and it had failed. It had taken them less than three breaths to cast him aside. How was he going to face Mina and Tima? He had been so sure Mamadou would welcome him as the son of Fallou, but all Mamadou had seen was “Fallou’s shadow.”
Now what was he going to do?
He did not fight the tear that slipped down his face. Instead he smeared it across his cheek as another fell.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 7