One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  Wandering away from the village center, he headed toward the beach, pulled by the lull of the lapping waves. He had reached a dead end before he had even started. Away from the commotion of the departing and returning gaals, Mor sat on a rock and drew his legs up to his chest, hugging them to him. He stared out, wishing a new idea would come.

  Your path is not over, and your story is not set. Look to the horizon, my son.

  Mor’s head sprang up. “Baay?” he called, even though he was sure it was his father. “I have already failed and the sun is hardly in the sky. I’m useless.”

  One is only useless when he has given up the will to be of use. Do not lose your fight. It should not be plucked as effortlessly as a chicken’s feather. My child has a stronger will than that.

  Although Mor was disappointed things had not worked out, he was thankful for his baay’s words. And suddenly, as he cradled his legs and his father’s sandals against his chest, something deep inside him, no bigger than a speck of dirt, told him he’d find another way.

  WHEN Mor could make no more excuses, he finally slid off the rock and headed home. Amina and Fatima sat outside their barak with Jeeg. Fatima was tucked in between Amina’s legs as she rebraided Fatima’s hair.

  “So did you get the answer you wanted?” Amina asked, making a new part down Fatima’s scalp with the comb.

  “Not as I expected,” he said. His throat felt clogged with marbles. “But I will find another way.”

  She held the comb in midstroke over Fatima’s partially unbraided cornrow. “I told you it would not be easy. Now what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet,” he said honestly. “But I will figure it out.”

  “And where did you get those?” Amina asked, eyeing his shoes. “You have not already been foolish?”

  “Mina, why do you always think the worst of me? Tanta Coumba gave them to me this morning. She didn’t want to see me tripping past her window.”

  Fatima popped one of the candies their bàjjan had brought them into her mouth. For the first time Mor noticed all the candy wrappers shoved under her leg.

  “How many of those have you eaten? You will make yourself sick,” he said, reaching for the bag, but Fatima was quicker.

  “These are mine. I can eat as many as I want,” she said, hugging the bag. “Get your bag. You will love the coconut ones. I do.” She beamed up at her brother. “But the ones with the chocolate in the middle taste funny. I don’t like those.”

  He looked between his little sister and the bag of tàngal, then rushed inside for the other bags. “That’s it,” he said, coming back out with a sack. He dropped the two bags of sealed candy neither he nor Amina had touched into it.

  “Hey, you took Mina’s, too. That’s not fair. Mina, you don’t want yours? I’ll have it.” Fatima twisted toward her sister, only to get whacked by the comb as Amina parted another row of Fatima’s hair.

  “Sit still, or these braids will go crooked.” Amina glanced up at Mor. “What are you about to do with those?”

  “Sell them,” he said, snatching up Fatima’s bag before she had a chance to grab it.

  “Give it back,” Fatima whined, trying to wiggle away from her sister, but Amina had her locked between her legs, holding her hair like reins, mid-cornrow.

  “Stay put, I told you.”

  “I want my sweeties back. Auntie gave them to me. Go sell your own.” Fatima pouted.

  “I need to sell them all,” Mor said, excited. “This will start us off. Auntie will see, we will be able to take care of each other all summer, and this is a start.”

  “And what about after that is gone?” Amina asked. “Then what? I know you won’t sell Jeeg to the reykat like Bàjjan suggested, but what else is there to try? We have nothing else to sell. Surely that money will not last us all summer.”

  “Aaaahhh.” Fatima grabbed for Jeeg. Amina loosened her grip on Fatima’s hair.

  “Stop, Tima. You know I would never sell her,” Mor tried to assure her. “She’s family, like you, Mina, and me. She will not be sold like we won’t be sold. Don’t worry.” He glanced at Amina. “Let me start with these today. I haven’t forgotten about tomorrow already.” He slung the cords of his sack over his shoulder. “The money I get from these will get us started.” He tapped the bottom of the burlap.

  “I thought you were going to work at Baay’s garage,” Fatima sniffled, hugging Jeeg’s neck as Amina tried to ease her back to finish braiding her hair. “And I saw Auntie give you money. Why are you hiding that? I want my tàngal back.”

  “Tima, stop,” Amina said. “You want to stay here? With me and Mor?”

  Fatima nodded.

  “Then he is right. He needs to sell the sweeties so we can stay. Otherwise, we will have to put you on a ndiaga ndiaye to go be with Bàjjan.”

  “Noooo,” Fatima screeched, pulling her legs up, locking herself into a ball.

  Jeeg’s head flopped off her raised knees, but she didn’t let the goat go.

  “You can have my tàngal,” Fatima whispered.

  “It will all be okay, you’ll see.” Mor smiled, spinning toward the path, feeling again like things might just work out.

  He shot down a path and turned down another; he walked toward the market, away from the clusters of baraks and fencing. A cloud of dust spun up as a tattered makeshift soccer ball rolled in front of him. A stampede of feet soon joined the ball.

  Mor’s foot crunched down on the plastic to stop it as all his friends from the village raced to reach it first. Looking at their sweaty faces, he realized how much he had missed his friends, whom he’d avoided since the burial. He’d seen pity in their eyes. Pity he had not wanted. But right now he saw excited, determined faces ready to have the ball.

  “Hey, Mor, kick it back,” one of the older boys said.

  “Why don’t you get in instead? We could use another player,” Mor’s friend Oumar shouted. He wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his green T-shirt. “They have one more than us, and Tapha is already cheating.” He pointed behind him.

  “Am not,” shouted a player standing in the distance between two rusted cans.

  “There is no defense down there. You can’t just wait in front of our goal,” Oumar shouted back. “See?” he said, turning to Mor. “Come in. With you at offense, I can watch him.”

  Mor saw no pity, only an eagerness to continue playing. He rocked the ball from his heel to his toe and back again. Soccer was his favorite. He really had missed it. The rustling plastic under the sole of his new shoe felt like an extension of him.

  Looking at the makeshift soccer field, he thought of his baay and one particular game—the old men against the young. The old men had been leading four goals to one. No one could catch Mor’s father, who’d scored three of the four goals. He was the most skilled attacker in the game, young or old. Everyone loved to watch his feet when he played. During that match, as fans of both teams cheered him on, he ran straight for Mor, who usually played striker but now was the final defender. A row of white teeth showed when he smiled.

  “I see they have finally put in their secret weapon,” his baay joked over his shoulder to his teammates.

  As his baay thundered toward him, Mor did not watch his eyes. Instead he stared at his hips. He leveled himself on his toes, ready for any move his father might make, except for the move he did. Within one heartbeat Mor’s father scooped Mor up into his arms and threw him over his shoulder. He raced with Mor screaming with laughter and dribbled toward the goal.

  Not wasting a second, a horde of young boys ran onto the field, following Mor’s giggles. When they caught up to his father, they tugged on his free arm and legs. One boy grabbed for his waist but caught hold of his shorts instead. The shorts pulled away toward his knees as the boy held on tight, but he kept running. Even with two boys pulling on his arm, he managed to snatch the front strings of his shorts before he exposed his whole bottom half to the village.

  Women howled and hooted with laughter.
Giggles escaped from girls’ throats as they pretended to cover their eyes. The men encouraged him to charge for the goal. Mor’s baay was like a laamb wrestler. He was half their gigantic size, but at that instant Mor thought him ten times as mighty. With boys hanging from each arm, Mor flopping over his shoulder, and the small boy tugging on his shorts, his bottom still partially displayed for the sun, Mor’s father scored another goal, barefoot.

  A wide smile pushed back Mor’s cheeks at the thought. He wanted to feel that happy again.

  “Get in, man,” Oumar urged. “We need you.”

  Mor glanced around, expecting what, he wasn’t sure. It was only him, the ball, and his friends.

  Without another thought he dropped the sack and dribbled, faking out his first opponent and then the next. He took off for the goal, like his baay had. Determined. He tapped the ball lightly with the outside curve of his foot, prodding it forward. Then he kicked it and a light spray of dirt off the ground. The ball soared past the goalie’s hand and just inside the imaginary goal area made by the rusted cans.

  A blast of cheers echoed around Mor. A group of boys, led by Oumar, rushed him, while others pounded their fists or flung their arms up, gesturing and shouting at the goalie for missing the ball and to Tapha for being on the wrong side of the field. For a moment it all felt like that day with his baay. It was almost as great as it used to be.

  Heading the ball to a teammate when it came back into play, he became lost in the game and his memories.

  They shouted and yelled, sprinted, dodged, and slide-tackled for hours, not caring about the heat or the time of the day. When they were all panting, tugging at their shirts and shorts, they collapsed in the dirt, and Mor felt happy. Then he froze. His head zoomed in one direction, then whipped in the other. The area was empty.

  His sack was gone.

  It had happened again.

  “What’s wrong?” Oumar asked. He lifted his head off the now-squashed plastic-bag ball.

  Mor didn’t answer. It had been right there. Hadn’t it?

  “Eh, Mor, what happened?” Oumar asked again.

  Mor wasn’t listening. He dashed to the spot where he’d dropped his sack. The dirt was tousled with footprints. His pulse pummeled the side of his neck. If there had been a cement wall in front of him, he would have knocked his head against it.

  “Are you looking for this?” Oumar walked over, holding the sack out to Mor.

  A muddle of brown burlap and military green merged in front of him. Mor blinked rapidly, clearing his eyes of budding tears. “Where was it?” He snatched the sack before his friend could open his mouth.

  “Khadim put it under the tree so we wouldn’t stomp it.”

  Mor opened the sack, checking inside. “I thought it was gone.”

  “No, it was always here,” Oumar said. “Come on, let’s play.”

  Oumar mashed the plastic bags back into shape. He bounced the ball off his knee and then trapped it with his chest, letting it roll down the length of his body to the ground. The ball spun at his feet until he stopped it with one tap, then slid it in Mor’s direction. This time Mor did not hesitate. He had a job to do and had already ignored it too long. He slung the sack over his shoulder and kicked the ball hard. It whizzed past his friend’s elbow, and a few players took off after it.

  “I can’t, I’ll see you later,” Mor said as the rest of the boys charged after the ball. He did not watch his friends playing his game without him. He loved soccer. His feet didn’t seem to have time to meet the ground when he played. But Mor couldn’t think about that anymore. He should have been at the market instead of the soccer field. He had lost hours of sales.

  Shouts and Tapha’s loud voice echoed behind him. It was obvious from the yelling and clipped Wolof phrases that Tapha had snagged the ball and kicked it into an unguarded goal. Mor knocked at pebbles with his foot and tugged hard on the sack cord. He tried to refocus on the market and selling his bags of tàngal.

  When Mor reached the market area, he halted, mouth hanging open. Fishmongers were packing up empty crates, and shopkeepers were sweeping the last of the dust and rubbish off their mats.

  Everything was closing.

  How had it gotten so late? Soccer!

  Desperate, he rushed toward the first person he saw.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. Would you like to buy some sweeties? They are the best ever made. Straight from the city.” But the stranger brushed by him, not listening.

  He ran up to another, and another, until one man finally stopped, blocked by Mor on the path.

  “What is it you are selling?” the man barked. “The sunset will not wait for you.”

  “Tàngal, sir. Tàngal. It is the best!” Mor reached into his sack and pulled out the first bag he touched.

  It was Fatima’s.

  Bitten-into pieces of sticky tàngal with half-melted chocolate centers oozed from the seams of several pried-open and discarded candies.

  “What game are you playing? A fool I am not!” the man shouted, pushing past Mor. “Those are half-eaten.”

  “Wait, sir. I have more.”

  When he looked up, a new bag of the hard-shelled sweeties in his hand, the man was already gone.

  Mor glanced around the market square.

  None of the woman in bright boubous still sat under the shade of the gigantic tree that stood in the middle of what was usually a maze of blankets and low-lying tables crammed with everything: bitter tomatoes, mint, soon-to-expire medicine, half-empty bottles of perfume, and anything else vendors thought someone might need.

  Everyone had gone home to be with their families and prepare their evening meals.

  He had messed things up again.

  He was too late.

  When you stumble, that is when you rise up and step again. Not all are born walking. Mistakes and missteps are still steps. Do not ignore what they teach.

  Mor should have been relieved to hear his father’s words, but he wasn’t. Shame splashed him like a tossed bucket of water. He felt he could do no right. He hadn’t meant to play all afternoon. But he had been happier and felt closer to his baay than he had since he went to the clinic. Mor did not tell Baay his excuses. Instead he shoved the tàngal back into his sack and headed for home.

  Whatever Amina would say, he deserved.

  WHEN Mor got back to the barak, he was surprised to find that Amina had no harsh words.

  “Like you said”—she pulled a needle through the fabric of his faded soccer jersey, mending one of its many holes—“there is always tomorrow. Maybe it will be better.”

  At first worry seeped from his shoulders, but he couldn’t quite rest. Her kindness unsettled him, making him feel worse. The failure was now an elephant’s foot against his chest.

  “I will sell as many as I can tomorrow,” he said, watching her. “I promise.”

  Amina did not look up. She pierced the fabric of his shirt again.

  “So, then, can I have some of my sweeties back?” Fatima asked.

  Mor dug in his sack. “Only the ones you already opened. I looked like a jackal in a bunny’s hide trying to sell those.”

  “Eck, they were the nasty ones with mint. I don’t want those.”

  “Well, the others have to be sold.” He didn’t respond when Fatima whined or tried to tug at the bag. He simply sat down and smeared some of the hazelnut-cocoa spread Tanta Coumba had given them onto the end of the bread loaf and lay on his mat, thinking of his father’s words, determined not just to walk, but to run.

  He was going to sell that tàngal.

  The next morning when dandelion-yellow light spilled into the window, Mor had already laced up his shoes and tied his protective amulet around his upper arm, ready to face the day.

  A better day.

  Fatima and Amina had gone down by the river early with Tanta Coumba’s daughters to wash clothes. Amina had said nothing more about the tàngal, but Mor had seen the disappointment and worry in her face. He also saw the fancy-school pamp
hlet wedged in the pages of her book.

  He pulled it out, looking at the smiling brown faces of the girls on the cover. “Iéna Academy for Girls” was written in green letters across the top, matching the green of the girls’ school uniforms. Mor opened it and read: “Iéna Academy for Girls attracts serious-minded girls who are focused and driven to learn.” Everything Amina was. Mor scanned the page and found a list of fees. He swallowed hard, realizing how much it would cost. Someone might as well have told him he needed to buy a car in three months’ time. He did not see how he would ever have enough, even with their baay having paid some of the tuition already.

  It cost 15,600 francs per year for tuition, registration, and uniforms.

  Add to that 8,500 francs per year for school supplies (ruler, calculator, pens, protractor, paper, colored pencils, etc.).

  It was over 24,000 francs, and his father had paid only 14,900.

  It was hopeless.

  It might as well have been 100,000 francs. How would he ever make that?

  But he remembered the day Amina had come back from visiting the school with Baay and Fatima and how happy she had been. Amina loved school the way Mor loved soccer and engines. Mor had never seen her smile so wide. Since the school opened six years before, it had been a dream of their yaay’s that Amina would attend. And their baay wanted to keep that promise to their yaay. He had tried and now it was Mor’s turn to do so. He just did not know how.

  Staring at the numbers on the paper, he wanted them to rearrange themselves or a few of the zeros to fall away. But they didn’t. He needed to come up with a plan. He went over to the shelf and pulled down the Dieg Bou Diar tomato can. The folded franc notes his aunt had given them lay rolled under a rock. He took them out and laid them across the bed and counted.

  “One thousand, two thousand, one thousand, one thousand, and one thousand.” Their aunt had given them six thousand francs, two thousand to use each month. They could survive on it, but barely. He heard his aunt’s words play in his head: 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. Mor tucked the money back into the can. He would show her. He would find a way to get the 9,200 francs Amina needed for school, and they would find a way to make the six thousand francs his aunt had left stretch out for a summer of food. He wanted his bàjjan to know they could not just survive but thrive in Lat Mata alone.