One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

“Come on, Papis. Let him have it,” Cheikh said as if he could not care either way. “He’s nobody.”

  Mor stopped jumping then. Stopped trying to reach his sack. Stopped everything.

  Papis grabbed the remaining bag of tàngal out of it, letting it fall.

  Mor picked up the sack, pulling it against him. “That’s mine,” he said halfheartedly as Papis dropped one of the sweeties with a caramel center into his mouth.

  Papis strolled over to Cheikh, offering him one. Cheikh pushed away the bag. Side by side, Cheikh stood as Papis’s twin, just as tall and just as unknown to Mor as a prowling lion.

  When Cheikh’s gaze dropped to Mor’s feet, Mor shifted self-consciously, trying to hide one foot behind the other. Then the clear image of his mother’s cloth wedged behind Cheikh’s pallet jabbed at Mor’s thoughts.

  “It was you,” Mor said. “You stole it. Just as they steal from me now. How could you do that?” He stared at Cheikh as Cheikh stared at him.

  “What is this khale yapping about?” Papis asked, snickering. He gripped Mor’s shoulder. “No one has stolen anything. We’re all friends here.”

  “Get off me.” Mor rotated his shoulder, causing Papis’s hand to fall.

  Papis held out the bag of candy, and two of the other Danka Boys dived for it, ripping it in two. Candy spilled everywhere, most landing in a shallow puddle. The two boys burrowed their hands in the mucky water like hogs’ snouts, nudging each other away, scrapping for the prize.

  “You know what you stole,” Mor said, turning his attention back to Cheikh. His candy was lost. “How could you? Do you even care that my baay has died? You act as if you don’t know me. But do you remember him? The one who kicked the football with you late at night when you were upset? The one who showed you how to lace all your fancy shoes. Have you forgotten him, too? The one who was more of a baay to you than your own—”

  “Enough,” Papis said, pushing his hand into Mor’s chest. “Your whining is boring me.”

  “Did you forget him, too?” Mor yelled over Papis’s shoulder as Papis bulldozed him back. Tears spilled from Mor’s eyes. “Did you?”

  Mor did not feel the sting of Papis’s elbow against his cheek until he hit the ground.

  “I said enough!” Papis stood over him.

  “Hey, what’s going on there?” a shopkeeper who had tossed Mor a coin for a sweetie earlier yelled. “We don’t need your trouble here. Rustle feathers somewhere else.”

  Papis threw his hand up at the man and made a sucking sound through his teeth. One of the other shopkeepers shook his head but turned from them. No one else seemed to want to get mixed up in the trouble, as if they did not want the problem at their stalls.

  “No one wants you here,” the shopkeeper shouted again.

  But Papis only scowled at him, then turned back to Mor. The shopkeeper rushed into his shop.

  “Come on, man, stop,” Cheikh urged.

  Papis ignored him, too.

  Mor pressed his palms in the dirt, trying to push himself up, but a Danka Boy knocked his arms out from under him with a sweep of his foot. Papis grabbed another treat from one of his friends, smearing the wet wrapper across his shirt, then pulled apart the foil with his teeth. He dropped a chocolate-filled sweet onto his tongue, which shot from between his lips like a lizard’s.

  “Nekhna,” he approved, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He plucked all the copper- and silver-striped wrappers out of the other Danka Boys’ hands.

  “Eh!” one boy complained, staring at the candy disappearing into Papis’s pocket. With just a glance from Papis, the boy went silent.

  “What else do you have?” Papis’s eyes shifted back to Mor and ran down his body, stopping at his waist. “You got something in those pockets?” He did not wait for Mor to respond. “Don’t think my boys won’t find it.”

  “Now I told you,” the shopkeeper shouted, emerging from his shop with a broom. “I’ve called the police.”

  A heavy laugh shook the air. “You think I care?” Papis said. “What can they do? They don’t scare me. But you”—he stabbed a finger toward the shopkeeper—“you should feel scared.”

  If the shopkeeper didn’t, Mor did. He wanted to run, but he didn’t think he’d make it far before one of the Danka Boys, maybe even Cheikh, stopped him.

  The shopkeeper raised his broom again, not backing down. “I told you, git!”

  In a flash Papis made for the shopkeeper’s door. He swept his hand across the table of goods outside the shop. Cans collided and tumbled across the tabletop. They dropped in the dirt with echoless thuds. The storekeeper charged forward, swinging his broom, as if Papis were a target ball and the broom handle were a cricket bat. The bristles struck Papis against his side. But instead of trying to dodge a second blow, Papis stood there waiting to be hit another time. The man hesitated a moment too long, probably unsure of whether to strike Papis again. Even though Papis was an unruly teenager, he was still a child.

  Motion on the still-lively street halted All eyes were on Papis and the shopkeeper. Papis snatched at the broom’s bristles and lunged, shoving the broom handle square into the man’s chest. The man doubled over, coughing. He slapped against his chest for air. Then his hand balled into a tight fist at the center of his shirt.

  That same rumbling laughter launched from Papis’s throat again as he threw the broom down. “Stay down, old man. If you know what is wise.”

  Cheikh pulled for Papis’s arm.

  People screamed for the police, who still hadn’t come. A couple of those watching offered to help the shopkeeper up, but he waved them back. Even the tiopati cook was on her feet, brandishing her glistening spatula like a spear. Papis ignored their outrage. His lip curled and a glob of saliva shot from his mouth. It landed at the shopkeeper’s feet. The man’s face was still scrunched in pain.

  The shopkeeper looked past Papis to Cheikh. “What are you, fourteen?” he said, coughing. “You are old enough to know better than to stand behind such a boy. I know this.”

  “You know nothing, old man, except to stick your neck where it doesn’t belong,” Papis said.

  Cheikh yanked on Papis’s arm again. “Come on. There is nothing here for us.”

  “Listen to your friend,” the shopkeeper said. “These are the first wise words I’ve heard.”

  As the other Danka Boys moved toward Papis and the shopkeeper, Mor took his chance to run. He gripped the cords of his sack and took off. Dirt, trash, and pebbles shifted under his feet. He felt as if he were on the beach in Mahktar all over again. His eyes met Cheikh’s one last time before he disappeared from sight around a corner.

  “Man, let’s go,” Mor heard Cheikh say.

  “Yeah,” Papis said. “This place is no fun.”

  Although Mor wanted to see which way Papis would head next, so he could go the other, his feet didn’t want to wait. His legs carried him farther away as if on puppet strings. He obeyed and sprinted down side paths, avoiding the main roadway. When he was sure he heard no one behind him, he slowed. Leaning against a high wall to catch his breath, he looked up and down the alley. Two men sat on a bench up the path where the alley spilled onto a wider road, but there was no one else in sight. Mor picked up his foot and pulled off his sneaker. As he tilted it down, the coins ran to its heel. He grinned. Despite having lost his last sweeties, he had more money than he’d had that morning. He was one tiny step closer to helping Amina and keeping his promise to his baay.

  Making his way to the other side of the market, far away from the earlier commotion, he kept checking behind him and jumped at every strange or unexpected sound.

  The bright orange of ripe mandarins, the vibrant greens and reds of mangoes, and the silvers and browns of fresh fish filled Mor’s eyes as he arrived at the vegetable and fish stalls. He held tight to his coins. A stall owner wrapped a package for another customer and paid Mor no mind. The stall owner laughed and swatted flies as she worked. When she finally caught sight of Mor near her
table, though, she gave him a stern look.

  “Move along. I won’t have begging at my business.” She hustled over to where he stood next to her loaves of bread, shooing him away, as if he were one of the flies. Or maybe word had reached her about the trouble that had happened at the other end of the market. Mor glanced behind him once more, checking for the hundredth time to see if the Danka Boys were lurking.

  “I’m not begging, ma’am.” He held out a couple of shining coins. “I’ve earned this money and I wish to buy a little bread, please.”

  The woman and her customer both looked at him. He was sure his elbows and knees were ashy, and that he probably had a faint white film around his mouth from lack of lotion, a luxury he could not afford. But he had money for this.

  He straightened but did not meet the woman’s eyes, showing his elder respect. “Please, could I buy some?”

  “Which would you like?” she asked, pointing to the baguettes she had out.

  “That one, please.” He did not choose the largest or the smallest. He simply chose one that would feed his sisters and him for the next few days.

  “Not that one?” She held out a larger loaf.

  “No, that one will be fine.” He nodded toward the first loaf he had selected.

  While she turned away from him and placed the bread in a bag, he quickly retied his shoelace. When he straightened, he put the coins in her hand.

  “Thank you.” He bowed and smiled at both women and dashed away.

  “And jërëjëf to you,” the stall owner called behind him.

  Mor hadn’t reached the edge of the fishmongers’ tables before he stuck his hand into the bag to break off a tiny piece of the bread. But he pulled on something that did not feel like bread at all. When he looked into the bag and saw a small fried fish, he stopped. After a moment he felt like all the fish’s and fishmongers’ eyes were on him. He felt like he was back on that beach where Papis had shouted, “Thief!”

  He quickly crumpled the top of the bag closed. Should he stay his course, pretending he did not notice, or bring the stall owner’s error to her eye?

  I know my son will always do what is honorable. . . .

  Mor did not need to look around or question his father’s words. Slowly he turned and trudged back to the woman, who was talking with her friend.

  Their voices boomed with laughter. The stall owner’s words rolled from her mouth as if they were tumbling down a hill, picking up speed as they went. Mor wasn’t sure he should interrupt.

  “Excuse me,” he finally said.

  “Yes?” The stall owner and her friend glanced down at him.

  “I think you made a mistake.”

  “And what would that be?” The stall owner placed her hands on her hips.

  He opened the bag so she could see inside. When she did not say anything immediately, he spoke up. “There is a fish in here that I did not buy.” He peeked back into the bag to make sure his touch and sight were not fooling him.

  Both women’s scrunched lips shifted into slight grins.

  “It’s for you.”

  A look Mor did not quite understand passed between the friends.

  He got nervous, wondering if they were trying to trick him into giving them more money.

  “I cannot take it.” Mor raised his voice a little and lifted the bag to her. He did not want to be mistaken for a saccee again. “I did not pay for it and have no coins to spare.”

  The woman leaned down to be eye level with Mor. “Since I’ve already placed it in your bag, I cannot take it back. Think of it as a gift.”

  “Merci waay,” Mor said, thanking her, vowing to pay her back when he could spare the coins. “I can’t wait to bring it to my sisters.”

  In a hurry to get home, Mor darted through the market, keeping alert for any signs of the Danka Boys. It’d been a long day, and even though he had lost the rest of the tàngal, he still had food, and a few coins in his sneaker that got him a tiny bit closer to his goal.

  MOR was unable to pull the door covering all the way back, or plant his foot inside the doorway of his family’s barak, before Fatima torpedoed into his arms, crushing the bag of bread and fish he had gotten at the market stall.

  “You can’t . . . you promised. Don’t do it,” Fatima begged. Her voice was muffled in the folds of Mor’s jersey.

  “Don’t do what, Tima?” Even though she was only six, her grip around his waist was strong, stopping him. “Look at me, what is it?” Mor tried to loosen the knot her tiny fingers had created at his back, but she kept tightening it. Then he tried to lift her head, but she buried it deeper into his shirt.

  When she finally raised her head and stared at him, her eyes were swollen and red. Endless streams of tears traveled down her cheeks.

  “What happened?” He looked from Fatima to Amina, who sat on the raised pallet with her legs crossed, her face buried deep behind the pages of La Petite Princesse, even though she’d read it a hundred times. “What is going on?” Mor demanded. “What has happened to Tima?”

  “Nothing,” Amina said flatly, and turned a yellowing page in the well-worn novel.

  “It is something. She is crying and she can hardly catch her breath.”

  “When Rama came to play with me,” Fatima sniffled, “her baay came too.” She released her fingers from around Mor’s waist long enough to point one at Amina. “And she told him you might sell Jeeg to him. But you can’t. . . .”

  Mor turned and looked at Jeeg, lying in the corner. She stopped chewing her cud and fixed her eyes on him as if she understood the discussion. “It’s all right, Tima. No one is selling Jeeg. I told you that when Auntie left. Jeeg is our family.” His worry started to cool. “That would be like us selling you, and we would never do that, would we, Mina?” Mor paused, waiting for Amina to speak. “Mina?” he repeated.

  Fatima’s eyes were wide and glassy with tears. She watched her big sister carefully.

  “It’s not that I do not care for Jeeg, because I do,” Amina began. “But we must think ahead. Mor does not have a job yet, and the tàngal won’t last long. Jeeg would be close. Rama does not live far. I only told him we would remember his kind offer of help.”

  Mor cradled Fatima’s shoulders, which shook from her sobbing. “I will not lie. Money from her sale would be helpful. But Jeeg was a friend to our yaay. And she is a friend to us.”

  “Yaay would understand,” added Amina. “She would not have wanted her children to go hungry or not to learn.”

  “We are not selling her. And we are not going hungry. Allah will provide.” The tone of Mor’s voice was firm. It softened when he looked back at Fatima. “Dry your eyes. Jeeg is not going anywhere.” Mor hadn’t thought Fatima could squeeze him any harder, but she did.

  “So there is no discussion?” Amina said, putting down her book. Her voice was slightly raised. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, money dances in your pockets until it is gone.” Her eyes were locked on her brother. “My heart is not coal, but sometimes the hardest ways are all we have. We need to remember that. We can’t only depend on you.” Her words scorched him. She swung her shoulder in the direction of the goat. “If we need help, our neighbor is offering us help. I did not say for sure we would sell her.”

  “Jeeg is not going to the reykat.” Mor’s voice lifted.

  “Who said anything about the butcher?”

  Fatima squeaked and swung her arms protectively around Jeeg’s neck. The goat let out a m-a-a and twitched her ears.

  “You know that is where Rama’s father would take her, just like Auntie wanted to,” Mor said. “She is old and can bear no kids to trade or make any milk. What else would he do with her? Let her feed on scraps in the trash heaps or lead her to the trees to nibble on leaves, as we do? What good would that be to him?”

  “None,” Amina conceded. “I just thought he could help us.”

  “I know,” Mor assured her. “But he would have no need of her alive.”

  After a moment Amina trudged
over to Jeeg, her eyes cast down. “I’m sorry.” She stroked the bridge of Jeeg’s nose while Fatima eyed her. “I would never want that for you. I was thinking only of francs and not of you. Please forgive me.” Jeeg pressed back on Amina’s hand and bleated as Amina scratched her. Amina brushed her cheek across Jeeg’s shoulder. A dark spot formed on her pink T-shirt.

  “I can take care of us,” Mor said, still stung by her earlier words. “I know you don’t think so—”

  “How?” Amina paused. She sniffled, then slapped at another tear. “You’ve lost our coins, or won’t tell us how you’ve spent them. Where is Yaay’s pouch? And where is the money Auntie left?”

  Mor was quiet long enough for the outside sounds to creep back into the small space of their home. His concern for Fatima had blocked them all out, but now the laughter of a child, the wail of a baby, and the whistling of a man all trickled inside.

  “The pouch fell from my pocket.” Cheikh flickered through his mind. “But I have hidden Bàjjan’s money and have brought home a little more.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” The words shook as they left her throat.

  Mor knew instantly that she was hurt. “I thought I could find it and get it back.”

  “Did you?”

  He heard a tinge of hope. He did not want to crush it, like Cheikh had crushed his, but he could not lie to her. “No.”

  “You have convinced our bàjjan to let us stay, and you have no plan. What happens if you fail?”

  Mor heard her fear.

  “I won’t,” he said, with more certainty than he felt. “I have already sold some of the tàngal.”

  “And you think that matches what was lost? A few sweeties sold could not come close to three thousand francs.”

  “No, but it is a start.”

  “And what will you sell next if it is not Jeeg?” Her voice turned hard. “Bàjjan has not given us much. And for the next few months we will be alone. We have no extra for anything else but food. What exactly do you have of value that can help us? I want to stay as much as you. To go to school and not clean some stranger’s house all day and night, but maybe we are not meant to dream and want something better. I don’t think dreams are for us.” On the pallet behind her the edge of the Iéna Academy pamphlet was visible, tucked under the corner of her book.