One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  When he released it, she tapped his cheek, then her gaze fell on Mor. Without her having to speak, Mor was certain he knew what she was thinking, and so did Yvette.

  “I know, Mother. It is like Idrissa came to smile on us for another afternoon.”

  Demba shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Rest easy,” the old woman said to him. “We are not trying to trouble you with these words. I’ve known you since before you were his age.” She nodded toward Mor, then turned back to Demba. “I know how things are unsettled within you.”

  Even though her speech was more simple, Mor was just as confused as when Demba spoke. Who was Idrissa? And why did the thought of him make Demba sad? He wanted to ask but decided he’d better not.

  The longer he stood on his feet under the screaming sun, the harder it was to focus on what Demba and the woman were discussing. Mor dared not tell Demba he wasn’t feeling well after all he’d put him through on the water. He blinked as a dribble of sweat caught in his eyelash. He was silent, swaying as the old woman picked up one of the leaves.

  “You see this vein along the edge?” Her finger traced a line in the leaf she held. “That is what you must—”

  Mor’s head slammed against the dirt before she could finish her thought. He was conscious only of the weightlessness of his body as it fell.

  “He is all bones . . . ,” he heard Yvette say. A soft hand was nestled behind his head. “A grasshopper has more meat.”

  “You have worked this boy too hard.” The older woman’s voice grew stern. “He is too young for this work.”

  Mor wanted to jump in to protest, but he could barely open his eyes or lift his finger.

  “The breeze rattles the covered windows,” Demba mumbled, as rapid as darting fish. “It is not allowed.”

  “He will be fine, Demba. He will be fine.” The edge was off the old woman’s words. “You and I will make it so.”

  “Bintou, fetch water,” Yvette called.

  As Mor heard feet run away, he tried to form words. Then his head was tilted back and his mouth pressed open to allow warm liquid to trickle down his throat.

  Coughing it up, his body surged violently forward. Yvette, who held his head, switched between thumping and rubbing his back until he had spit out all the unsettled broth.

  He felt like even more of a burden sitting in his own spit with a huddle of brown eyes fixed on him. Demba alone did not stare. He busied himself with a mortar and pestle, grinding some of the leaves the old woman had spread in front of her. Mor tilted his head and noticed a gathering of berries by Demba’s feet. A fire slapped at the bottom of a boiling pot of liquid.

  Demba scraped the paste he had made into the pot and stirred, muttering to himself again. Mor closed his eyes, unable to make out any of the words. He simply wanted to lie still. He hoped the constant sloshing feeling in his head would stop.

  Mor didn’t know how much time had passed, but he felt the heated water coating his closed lips and he opened them.

  “That is it,” the old woman said as Mor drank. “Take it down slow. It will make you strong.” After a few more sips his head was laid back down. A cool cloth pressed against his forehead. “You have mixed well, Demba. He will be fine.” Soon the sun would slip out of the sky. Demba scooped Mor into his arms again like a newborn babe, but Mor made no complaints. He rested his head on Demba’s arm as he was carried to the bike. Demba situated him on the bike bar between his arms, not the handlebar. Mor wanted to say he could manage, but knew it wasn’t altogether true. He was definitely better than he had been when they first arrived, but all he wanted was more sleep. The boy Mor had spoken with earlier stacked the empty buckets; then Yvette wrapped two loaves of bread and some kola nuts in cloth. Touching Mor’s forehead one last time, the old woman added the bundle that had rested in her lap to the bucket. His eyelids flickered open and closed as the boy placed two bottles, strong with the stench of gasoline, in the bucket, fastening it all to the back of the bicycle. Instead of getting on the bike himself, Demba held the handlebars.

  “Be well,” the women called as Demba guided the bicycle down a pebble-laden path.

  Even though Mor wanted to plod beside him, showing that he was strong, he was grateful for the support Demba’s body gave as Demba maneuvered the bike over the rough terrain, mumbling.

  “Bane bou gnou làkhas gnou boleko booko guisse dagaye khi khat.”

  Soon the rhythm of Demba’s thoughts about “rolling rocks” joining “broken breaths,” the crunch of Demba’s sandals, the wheels against the dirt, the never-ending rustling of trees, and the conversations of birds rocked Mor back to sleep.

  DEMBA and Mor were halfway back to Lat Mata when Mor was able to sit up and look around, balancing on his own. But each time he did, Demba pressed him back down.

  “I am okay now. See?” He shook his head from side to side, only becoming mildly dizzy again. “You don’t have to walk anymore, we can ride.”

  “My winged feet are our slippered wheels.”

  Between his rambles Demba kept walking. As they neared Lat Mata, Mor felt worse about all that had happened. He was an added burden to a man to whom most of the fishermen had not shown an ounce of kindness. With each step Demba helped Mor. But how could he help Demba? All he had was a churning belly and a spinning head. He thought of his sisters, his promises, and a nearly empty tomato can tucked under his parents’ old pallet. Empty ideas of how to repay this stranger whirled in his head along with wonderings about the boy they had called Idrissa, whom he seemed to look so much like.

  When they returned to the beach, the other fishermen had already brought in their catch. Wet, turned-over sand and a few fish were the only evidence that the gaals had gone out. Birds pecked at the fish being spoiled in the sun.

  Mor stretched and yawned, surprised to have fallen asleep again in the crook of Demba’s arm. The turbulent sea inside his head had stopped rocking, and his nausea had all but gone away. He took the buckets Demba untied and was surprised to see three fish still swimming in one.

  “What are you doing with these?” he asked. “Do you sell them too? Or are they for you?” Mor would have loved to have just one for him and his sisters. But feeling like a burden already, he would never ask.

  Instead of answering, Demba gestured for Mor to follow him. He led him to a bright-blue shack with a low-lying, rippling tin roof. It was tucked along the beach wall under the shade of a large palm tree across from the fish stalls. A rusted orange soda pop sign hung from a nail on one of its three walls. Under the cover of the roof, a man lounged on a chair with his face hidden by a wet handkerchief. His legs were crossed and stretched in front of him. He wiggled his toes as if keeping the beat to a good song.

  Demba stopped in front of him, blocking the man from the sun.

  “We are out of soda for the day,” the man said, not taking off the cloth. “But I do have a few juices left.” When Demba did not speak or move, the man finally stirred and removed his handkerchief from his face.

  “Demba, my friend, I heard you went home early with no fish. Most of the other fishermen have caught almost nothing today as well. So I thought I would not see you.”

  Demba dropped the bucket of swimming fish.

  The man shook his head. “You are fortunate,” he laughed. “I should not have thought your hands would be empty. They are never so. A man who shares with others is always rich.” The man got to his feet and mopped his sweat-speckled brow with his handkerchief. “What do you have for us? Redfish, bonga, thiof, or capitaine?” The man grinned, displaying a wide gap between his front teeth. He peered into the bucket Demba held out to him. “Nice, nice. And there are three.”

  Demba stepped to the side, revealing Mor.

  “Now, who is this?” the man asked. His eyes squinted when he grinned.

  Mor moved forward, expecting him to say something about the Idrissa the women had kept speaking of, but he didn’t.

  “Speak, son, speak. Or has a golden jack
al run away with your tongue?”

  Mor found the man’s smile infectious. “No, sir.”

  “I see, I see. And do you have a name?”

  “Mor, sir.”

  “Well, Mor, I’m Amadou, the best fish fryer in all of Sunugaal.” He poked a finger at his chest proudly. “You’ll see. It will only take a moment to fry these up.”

  He took the bucket and went into the interior of the shack; Mor followed. Lighting a match over a squat kerosene drum, Amadou rotated a knob to lower the energetic flame. A deep black-crusted pan sat on top of it. The liquid inside started to pop and snap almost instantly. Amadou rinsed the fish in a large basin, then sliced through them with a knife, leaving all their entrails on a chopping board. He sprinkled the fish with spice from a dented tin shaker and dropped them into the sizzling pan.

  Mor lingered near his side while Demba placed the loaves of bread he’d received on a square table covered with a sun-bleached plastic table cover. Amadou followed the direction of Mor’s gaze.

  “Did you like it on the water with Demba?”

  “Yes, very much,” Mor said, then dropped his head. “But I don’t think he liked it very much. I might have been more trouble than help.”

  “I doubt that. You were his company when he was alone.”

  Mor knew Amadou was only trying to make him feel better. Demba did not seem like he ever minded being alone. He always had himself to talk to.

  “Though next time,” Amadou continued—Mor wanted to believe there’d be a next time, but he wasn’t so sure—“be watchful and listen to Demba’s words. Learn from them and him. He will make you more than just a sound fisherman.”

  “But how come they don’t always make sense?”

  Amadou threw his head back and gave a silent laugh. “He is a man of complex thought, but if you watch him, you will understand more than words can ever explain.”

  Mor glanced back at Demba, sitting at the table. Mor promised himself that if Demba let him come back, he would watch and listen to everything.

  Amadou moved the fish to a tray covered with a sheet of newspaper and brought them to the table. The smells were dizzying, but this time in a good way. Mor’s stomach talked to him as he slid into a plastic chair. “Okay.” Amadou clapped his hands together. “Now you will taste the best fish you have ever tasted.”

  When Demba placed a whole fish in front of Mor, Mor’s eyes raced between his, Amadou’s, and Demba’s plates. His jaw lay open. Even though the fish was only inches away from his mouth, with its tail lopped over the edge of his metal dish, Mor could not believe it was all for him. He had never had an entire fish to himself before. While Demba and Amadou pinched at chunks of meat, devouring their meals, Mor kept to a small section of the spiced fish.

  “I cannot believe you do not like my cooking. Your taste has gone missing.” Amadou eyed the uneaten portion of fish. He pushed his metal plate, which held only the glassy eyes and sucked-clean skeleton of the fish, to the center of the table.

  “No, sir, it is very good.” Mor gave a half smile and wiped his hand across his mouth. “But I want to bring some to my sisters. They are waiting for me at home. And they will like it too.”

  Amadou nodded. “You are a good brother.”

  “I’m not sure,” Mor whispered.

  He licked his fingers before wrapping the rest of the fish in a piece of newspaper Amadou handed him. He took a last bite of meat before he closed the paper. Demba pushed the remaining half loaf across to him. Mor grinned and tucked it under his arm. Demba had done more for Mor in a day than many might do in a lifetime. When he stood to say thank you and good-bye, Demba caught him by the wrist. Mor stiffened. Had he done something else wrong? Demba’s grip was firm, but it didn’t hurt. Mor’s heart tripled its beat. He looked to Amadou for help.

  Then Demba turned over Mor’s hand and placed a few shiny coins in it.

  Mor stared at his open palm. Although at the start of the day he had hoped he’d be paid, now he didn’t feel that he deserved it, as relieved as he was. “Are you sure?” He glanced down. He had been given three hundred francs. Much more than he had gained for selling his bags of tàngal for most of a day. His hands were filled with fish and bread and then coins, which danced in his hand under the eye of the late-afternoon sun. “Thank you, sir. You have been so kind to me.”

  Demba’s dreadlocks fell forward when he nodded.

  Amadou smiled.

  Just as quickly as Demba had grabbed Mor’s arm, he released it. Then his attention turned to the waves. After thanking Amadou, Mor paused, then stood in front of Demba.

  “I know I was not the best fisherman today, but could I come back tomorrow?” Mor scrunched his hands and toes tight, hoping. “I will be much better than today.”

  Demba said nothing.

  “I promise I will try harder not to get in your way,” Mor pleaded.

  “Waves are not my captive. Fish are not marked with my name. A catch decides that fate.”

  Mor flipped the words over and over in his head, trying to make sense of them. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,” he finally admitted. He looked again to Amadou for help, but he was busy clearing the plates. Mor stared at Demba, who was already looking back at the sea.

  Mor bit at the corner of his lip. I have to try. “I will be here tomorrow. Incha’Allah. And if you want me to, I will get in your boat. And if you have left without me, I will understand.” And with that he was off, hoping for another day on the water with Demba.

  FULL with fish and bread, Mor’s stomach felt as if a million moths’ wings flapped inside him as he turned for home.

  I know your mind is light and your hands are full, but haven’t you left someone else’s empty?

  Mor stopped, not sure whose riddle of words was harder to understand, Demba’s or his baay’s.

  “Why can’t you just say what you mean?” Mor whispered to the sky, wanting and not wanting his father to hear him. “Whose hands?” he asked the air, wishing he could see his baay.

  Your pocket holds a coin that is owed to another. Do not forget your debt. Make good on your promise.

  It was true, Mor had forgotten all about the kind woman in the market.

  Turning, he ran toward the village center, hoping she had not packed up for the day.

  “Eh, Mor, wait up,” his friend Oumar called to him as he raced down the path. Oumar dribbled his plastic-bag soccer ball toward Mor, weaving through the thinning crowd. “Where have you been?”

  “Around,” Mor said once Oumar had reached him. Oumar nudged the ball his way. Mor happily passed it between his feet before tapping it back.

  “You’re never around.” Oumar rolled the ball up his foot, popping it to his knee.

  “I am.” Mor balanced the ball on his head when Oumar launched it through the air. “I just have things I have to do now.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have to take care of my family.”

  “Don’t you have a bàjjan for that?”

  “She’s not here.” Mor bounced the ball from one knee to the other.

  “Where’d she go?” Oumar stole the ball from Mor when he dropped it to his foot.

  Mor stole it back. “Away.”

  “She just left you?” Oumar shot his leg out, trying to snag the ball, but Mor was too quick.

  “I wanted her to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to take care of my family.”

  “I don’t get why.” Oumar raced in front of Mor, trying to get in position to snatch the ball again. “It means you can never play.”

  “I’m playing now,” Mor said, spinning around Oumar with the ball under his toe.

  “You know what I mean.” Oumar stopped in the dirt, his hands on his hips in frustration as Mor sailed by him again.

  “I play when I can and work when I have to.” Mor kicked the ball back to Oumar. “It’s not so bad.”

  “It sounds bad to me,” Oumar said, waiting for the rolling ball.


  “It’s not,” Mor said, stopping. “We will all have to do it sometime.”

  “For what? You think one day you’re going to become some big, important man around here?” He stuck out his chin and raised his chest, strutting around the dirt.

  “No,” Mor laughed. “I’ve become a fisherman.”

  “Who’d let you in their boat?”

  “Demba.”

  Oumar stopped knocking the ball between his feet. “Now I know he’s doff, letting you go near his boat. I’m sure you’re both scaring the fish away now,” Oumar chortled.

  “Whatever,” Mor said, glancing behind him down the road. He was just able to see the first stalls of the fish market. Some were already empty.

  “I have to go,” Mor said, thinking of his baay and his promises.

  “Where are you going now? You’re always going the other way.”

  Mor glanced at the oil-soaked newspaper and the bread for his sisters and the coin he owed. Would he ever be able to think just about himself again? Eat all his fish and play soccer till he couldn’t stand? “I have to go before everyone leaves the marse,” he called back, moving away from his friend, not wanting to think about the things he could do and have anymore.

  “Next time, then.” Oumar rocked the ball under the sole of his foot again.

  “Next time.” Mor waved and dashed off.

  “Slow down, slow down,” an elderly woman in an baggy boubou said. Her arms thrust forward, stopping Mor before he stepped on her feet. “There is no crocodile snapping at your ankles to reach here first. What you miss today will be here tomorrow.” She continued talking as she strolled past him. “There have always been fish here . . . every day of my life.”

  “Sorry.” He shuffled a few steps, then picked up speed again. When he reached the stall owner who had given him the fish, his breathing was heavy.