“Ah, my little friend, you are back?” She fanned herself as she leaned on her table full of mandarins, orangey-reddish brown sidèmes, lettuce, tomatoes, and smoked fish. Her loaves of bread were hidden under a cloth. Though it was not enough camouflage to fool the flies that swarmed over them.
Mor opened his hand to her. Three polished one-hundred-franc coins sat in it. “This is for the fish.”
“And where did you find money so soon?” She dropped two of the coins in a drawstring pouch dangling from her wrist and rooted around for his change.
“I am a fisherman now,” he said, beaming, when she gave him fifty francs back.
She held a mandarin out to him and he paused. He was not sure he should spend more of his money so soon. The smell of citrus rose from its skin. It had been weeks since he had bitten into anything smelling so sweet. When he offered her the change back, she quickly waved him away.
“No, no. The first coins were plenty. Save the rest of your money.” She pushed his hand back toward his pocket. “So, a fisherman, you say? And with whom do you fish?”
He took the mandarin from her hand and bowed his head in thanks. “Demba. Do you know him?”
“Ah, yes, I know him well. We all do.” She grinned down at Mor, then glanced around. “He brings me herbs for my gout.” Then her brow became crinkled rows of lines. “You are not frightened of him? Many older than you are.”
Mor raised his shoulders and then quickly shook his head. He was a little afraid, but not much. “He has been nice to me and very patient. I can’t be afraid of someone like that.”
“He’s a good man and knows many things. You would do well to listen.”
“His words are confusing, though,” Mor said.
“Though they appear a tangle, when unwoven, they are a sturdy string.”
“Someone else said they are important. But I just don’t understand. My yaay used to sing songs with words like those. And I never understood that, either.”
She tapped at his chest with her finger. “You be a good friend to him. And he will be a good friend to you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” That, Mor could understand and do.
He was about to turn and go, when she asked, “Does your mother need any of this wonderful lettuce?” She picked at a few of the leaves. “They are fresh today.” Water beads trickled off the greens.
“I don’t have a yaay anymore.” He stared at the leaves, thinking of his mother’s spirit.
“I’m sorry. Maybe your grandmother?”
Mor shook his head.
“An older sister?”
“My sisters are both young.”
“Your father?”
Mor hung his head. “He is gone now too.”
“Then who do you have caring for you?” She reached out her hand and cupped his elbow, drawing him closer to her.
“I care for us.” He stuck out his chest the same way Oumar had done.
“And what of your family?” she asked. He read the concern on her face. “No uncles or aunts to take you in?”
“Our aunt has let us stay here for the summer.”
“Let you?” The stall owner stepped back, her mouth open. “What type of neglect is this?” Her voice rose, causing a few heads to turn. “We do not do this. You are but a child.”
The word “child” hammered against his head. “I asked her to.”
“Tah. She is supposed to look after you, as her elders once did for her. That is how it is done. You do not make the decisions.”
“She’s coming back,” Mor rushed to add, worried he’d already said too much. “Our mother’s friend is watching over us while she’s gone, and our neighbors check in too. Most days my sisters are with them playing and doing chores together. We are fine.”
“I will trust your words, but know that from now on my eyes are also on you.”
Mor let out a heavy breath, relieved their conversation was coming to an end.
“Take these,” the woman said. She dropped three egg-size ditakh fruit and another mandarin into a bag. She left it open for Mor to throw in the mandarin, the fish wrapped in oil-stained paper, and the bread he clutched. “It has been a slow fruit day,” she said before Mor could protest. “It would be a shame for their sweetness to be wasted. They will sour tomorrow.”
Mor knew what she said was not a complete truth, but he did not refuse. Instead he cradled the heavy plastic bag, excited to have gifts again for his sisters.
His smile pushed up the corners of his mouth. He had coins in his pocket, fish in his belly, and a feast for his sisters. Even with being sick, it had been a long time since he’d had such a happy day.
“Bring me some of that fish when you catch it. I can sell it at my stall.” She put one hand on her hip and swept the other in front of her face to catch the breeze.
“I will, I will,” Mor agreed. He stepped out of the way of a fishmonger lifting a stack of wet crates and headed away from the stalls.
When he got on the main road again, he saw Oumar and their friend Khadim across the street. He waved, but Oumar didn’t see him. As he was about to cross the road, calling out to them, he stopped. In the shadows cast by one of the cement-walled buildings, beady black eyes tracked him. Papis and two other Danka Boys stepped out. Papis raised an eyebrow, watching Mor. Mor didn’t want to wait to see what he would do next; he just ran as far away from the market and Papis as he could get. He was not going to let the Danka Boys spoil another day.
BY the time Mor found himself on the path outside his door, he was tired, excited, and relieved to have escaped the Danka Boys.
“Mor!” Fatima rushed out of the barak to greet him. “We missed you. But I played with Rama and Oumy, and helped Amina at the well. I danced as she pounded maize. Amina pretended she was beating a drum. It was fun! We ate lunch with Tanta Coumba, and I played with baby Zal. He’s funny. He can make little bubbles come out of his mouth like this.” She tried to make bubbles, but spit ran down her chin instead. She wiped it away as she continued to ramble on. “So did you become a fisherman like you said you would? Or did you play football aaaalllll day? Mina thinks you played. But I think you fished.” Fatima joined her fingers with Mor’s. “What’s in there?” she asked, noticing the bag in his other hand.
“It’s a treat for all of us. A way to celebrate today.”
“Is it tàngal?”
“Nope.” Mor held the plastic bag high as she tried to jump for it.
“Is it papaya?”
Mor shook his head as Fatima giggled, skipping around him.
Jeeg came out from inside the barak, craning her nose up. “M-a-a, m-a-a,” she bleated as she sniffed the air.
“Uh-uh,” Mor joked, leaning toward Jeeg as if in conversation. “It’s not orange peels, either.”
“You’re silly.” Fatima covered her mouth, laughing. “She didn’t say that. She said ‘rusted cans.’ She loves rusted cans.”
Mor shook his head. “It’s not those, either.”
“Let me see, let me see, let me see.” Fatima hopped, trying to pull his arm down.
“Okay, okay,” he said, dropping his arm. “But let’s go find Mina first and celebrate together.”
Before he could finish, Fatima released her hold on him and went tearing into the barak. “Mina, Mina,” she shouted. “Mor has a surprise.”
When Mor stepped inside, Amina was sitting, legs crossed, on their parents’ pallet, folding the day’s laundry. When she looked up, her eyes went from Fatima to Mor, a question present in them.
“Mina.” Fatima jumped on the pallet next to her sister, her knees in one of the folded fabrics. Amina shooed her and Fatima leaped up again, dashing back to her brother’s side. “Mor has a surprise.”
“I know. I heard you outside,” Amina said. “I think everyone in the village heard you.”
Fatima pulled on her bottom teeth with her finger. Then she looked at Mor. “Can you show us now?”
“Yes,” Amina said a little lighter. “Can we s
ee this great surprise?”
Mor opened the bag for Fatima and let her peek inside.
“He brought mandarins. We haven’t had mandarins since Yaay died. She loved them. . . .” She trailed off for a second, still searching the bag. “What’s this?” She dug inside the bag, poking at the oil-stained newspaper.
“Fried fish,” Mor said, and smiled. “We got it on the sea today.”
“We?” Amina asked, sliding to the edge of the pallet.
“Yes. Demba and me. I think I might be a fisherman now.” He would deal with tomorrow when it came. Right then he just wanted to have fun with his sisters, like they used to when their baay was alive.
“Mor is a fisherman. Mor is a fisherman.” Fatima spun around him, the mandarin in her hand.
“Duhgu . . . duhgu . . . duhgu,” Mor grunted as he moved his hips in his favorite dance. “Come on, Mina. Tonight is a party.” He ticked his hips in a box, then lifted his leg and jumped.
Fatima danced over to Jeeg, swinging the goat’s ears to the beat of a song in her head.
“Duhgu . . . duhgu . . . ,” Mor said again, rocking toward Amina, grinning, lifting his eyebrows to his beat. He tapped out his foot in front of him.
“Oh,” she said, sliding off the pallet. A smirk across her lips. She laid the half-folded T-shirt down. “Out of the way. Let me show you what you’re supposed to do.” She lifted her sër to her calves so she had room in it to dance. The sarong flapped in front of her, mimicking her movements. She batted her elbow forward then back, leaping off the ground.
The widest smile Mor had seen in a while brightened her face. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that smile, which was so much like their mother’s. Her hand flew up and down as she slapped her bare feet against the dirt floor, then leaped over and over, faster and faster.
Mor grabbed the empty water bowl under the shelf and beat his hand against it to the rhythm of Amina’s dance. The beat of the makeshift drum caused Amina to move even faster, taunting Mor to keep up.
She stomped. He banged. She hopped. He tapped.
Fatima bounced along, clapping and hugging Jeeg around the neck all at once.
Amina’s feet kicked up dust, while Mor’s hand pounded the metal bowl, a tinny sound vibrating through the space. When Amina fell back on the pallet, her breath flying out of her, Mor crashed to the floor. Fatima dropped down too. Jeeg stood over them all, staring.
Amina was the first to laugh. A laugh that was light and free of worry. Mor couldn’t stop smiling. This was the Amina he wanted to stay.
“Can we eat this now?” Fatima said, picking up the mandarin again. “Please.”
“All you do is think of food.” Mor shook his head, grinning. He placed the bowl back under his parents’ photograph. His parents smiled on him from their picture.
“I want to hear about you being a fisherman,” Fatima said, biting into the peel. “And I’ll tell you how Amina slipped in the mud at the river.” She giggled, glancing at her sister, who dabbed her T-shirt across her forehead.
“I didn’t slip,” Amina said. “I meant to slide down that hill.” A chuckle escaped her throat. “It was quicker than walking to wash the pots.”
Mor laughed, wishing he had been there to see it.
“It was funny.” Fatima crammed some of the fruit into her mouth. “She had mud all over her bottom. Everybody laughed. Then she pulled Naza and her friend Tening in, and they started splashing, so Oumy and I jumped in too. It was so much fun!” Fatima stopped talking long enough to shove another piece of mandarin into her mouth. “Then Oumy and I made mud pies until Tanta Coumba came and called us back. She needed her clean pots to make dinner.” Fatima held her belly and laughed, her cheeks full of mandarin. “Oumy had mud on the side of her face, and we smeared it on Jeeg. But she didn’t like that too much, though.” Fatima popped another slice of tangerine into her mouth, even though she hadn’t finished eating the first three pieces she’d shoved inside.
“So tell us about your fishing,” Amina said, tucking the folds of her sër into her lap. “We want to hear everything, don’t we, Tima?”
Fatima got up off the floor, letting the mandarin peels fall to the ground. Jeeg was quick to nibble them up. Fatima crawled across the pallet and tucked herself next to Amina.
Mor sprang to his feet, ready to tell them everything. They stared at him like they were the audience and he was on a stage, like they’d done when their parents were still alive. Amina took a slice of mandarin from Fatima’s hand as Mor became an actor, playing the mighty Demba. He grabbed a T-shirt and pulled it onto his head, then whipped it back and forth like Demba’s dreadlocks.
Amina and Fatima cried with laughter as he flung the T-shirt off and pretended to fall overboard as his extra-clumsy self.
Their giggles and his impression of Demba’s jumble of words sailed out the door and into the air past their yaay’s spirit and their baay’s breath.
AS Mor slept, he dreamed of happier times. He’d gone to bed smiling, Fatima’s and Amina’s laughter tickling his ears. But when he turned onto his side, curling on his mat for a bit longer, a new sound greeted him. A faint yet close whistling.
He narrowed his eyes, letting them adjust to the dark, but nothing was out of place. Everything was as they had left it. His sisters still snuggled close to each other on their parents’ pallet. Then he noticed Jeeg was not in her usual spot by the door, but her tether rope snaked outside under the door flap. He was about to lay his head back on his elbow when the whistling started again. Soft at first, then a little louder, as if it were coming from right outside his door. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he slipped into his baay’s sandals. Weet-wooh-wooh . . . weet-wooh-wooh led him to the door.
When he pulled back the door cover, he wasn’t sure what he expected to see, but his eyes were not ready for what he saw—his old friend sitting on an overturned crate, whittling and whistling at his door in the middle of the night.
“What are you doing over here like a mongoose at a termite mound? You are not welcome here anymore.” Mor rubbed his eyes again, making sure they weren’t deceiving him. “Go away.”
“I miss this.” Cheikh smiled as if he had not heard what Mor had said. “Jeeg warming my feet in the night air as I carve. Remember when we used to sit out here with your baay and talk like men?”
“Do not mention my baay. Don’t let thoughts of you, him, and me pass your mind anymore. You didn’t come . . .” Mor trailed off, angry.
“He used to make the best tea those nights. Strong and sweet. With the right amount of spearmint.”
“Did you hear me?” Mor knocked Cheikh’s shoulder, causing him to carve extra deep in his wood.
“I remember the time—”
“Stop, stop it now. You are lying. You remember nothing.” Mor pushed him again. “Especially not how to be a friend.”
Cheikh rocked off balance and Jeeg jumped back. She nudged the door cover with her nose and went back inside.
Mor lowered his voice to almost a whisper, remembering his sisters. “How could you be so mean in the market? Let your friends steal from me as if you didn’t know me. I hate you.” Mor kicked at the crate. “I wish you never came home.”
Cheikh did nothing.
“Does your yaay know who you’ve become?”
Cheikh spun on Mor. He pointed the knife tip at his childhood friend. “My yaay knows nothing. And you better forget any thoughts you have of telling her. It would not serve you well if you do.”
“Now you threaten? It’s me. The one who was there when your baay dragged you screaming from your mother’s arms to send you to that daara. Remember? You didn’t want to leave Lat Mata for anything. You cried then the tears of a liir, no older than your baby brother. Your father let me walk with you then so you would stop. I have not forgotten that day. Why are you now acting as if you’re not my brother?” Mor studied Cheikh closely. Straggly threads dangled from the armpit of Cheikh’s basketball jersey. The red dye from his shirt ha
d bled into the yellow-banded collar.
“Don’t speak of things you do not understand,” Cheikh said.
“Then explain. I am here. I am listening.”
Cheikh went back to whittling his wood. “I am here to offer you a chance.”
“A chance at what?”
“Safety.” Cheikh rose to his feet. “You will need it if someone catches your scent.”
Cheikh dusted off his jeans. Curls of wood fell to the ground like Mor imagined snow would. He stared at the curls against the dark earth for a long time.
“Safety? What do I need to fear?”
“You’re alone now. Not everyone is out to help you.”
“Like you?”
Cheikh’s eyelid twitched. Mor hoped his words had had some effect.
“Just know I warned you,” Cheikh said. He pushed the back of the knife blade against his thigh, folding it into the hilt, and shoved it into his pocket. Weet-wooh-wooh. Weet-wooh-wooh. Weet-wooh-wooh. He whistled, strolling away from Mor. The conversation over.
The chilled air brushed against Mor as nighttime insects were awake with chatter. Mor swept his hand across his eyes and went back inside. Amina craned her head to look toward the doorway.
“Mor?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep. There are still hours before the sun greets us again.”
As if already in a dream, Amina rubbed her cheek against her arm, smacking her lips and tongue together. Then she smiled in her sleep. Mor tried to hold on to that smile as he lay down again for the night.
Safety? What from? he thought, tossing Cheikh’s words around in his head until he rose hours later. Cheikh had said them like a warning. Were the Danka Boys coming for him? If so, why? He had nothing.
Mor tore off a piece of bread and bit into it as he pulled the door cover back.
“Good luck on the water today,” Amina said before she turned over.
He stared at her and Fatima for a long while, holding on to their laughter from the night before. Trying to block out Cheikh’s threats.
Every step he walked toward the beach that morning, his worry about Cheikh became less and his hope became stronger that Demba would be there waiting for him, so he could have more funny tales to act out for his sisters. As he came close to the beach wall, he held his breath.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 14