He didn’t let it go until he saw Demba there.
Waiting for him.
AFTER a week on the water Mor was used to waking up with the sun. But it was earlier than that when he squinted and wondered why the predawn light and a damp breeze were seeping in through the doorway. The plastic door covering should have defended against them. Blinking rapidly, he tried to wash the sleep from his eyes. Then he stopped. He heard more than just the usual light snores and heavy breathing of his sisters.
Someone was at their door.
He squinched his eyelids and tried to focus but couldn’t make out the features of the person who filled most of the doorway. He thought it was Cheikh again. And even though he was hurt by so much his old friend had done, he was curious about his return. He thought maybe what had been broken could be fixed. But when his eyes focused, and the face in shadow became clear, he almost choked on the air.
It was Papis.
Mor’s optimism plummeted, replaced by worry. “What are you doing here?”
“You and I share a brother.”
Mor threw back his cover and jumped to his feet. He hated that he’d been ready to forgive Cheikh just seconds before. “He is no brother of mine,” Mor whispered, hoping not to wake his sisters.
Papis threw his head back in silent laughter. “He says you want to join the Danka Boys. I told him to stay behind so I could see for myself. Is that true, my friend, do you want to be my brother?”
“He lies. I do not want to join you.”
Papis glanced at the pallet where Mor’s sisters slept. But he didn’t leave the doorway. “You have a lot to protect. Are you strong enough to do it alone?”
Mor stared at Papis, clenching his fists at his sides.
Don’t be lured by threats. For they are only bait. Their aim is still to ensnare you. Be mindful. Your strength is not the question. It is your will. Is it made of a tortoise’s shell?
Mor stood taller knowing his baay was with him.
“I don’t hear you.” Papis smirked, cupping his hand around his ear.
“Leave us alone.” Mor took a step forward. “I will never want to be like you.”
“Tut-tut-tut, don’t be so quick to say ‘never.’ ” Papis shook his head, pushing out his lips. “There may come a day when you crawl to us, begging to be a Danka Boy, and then you would be a liar.”
Mor turned to make sure his sisters still slept. Fatima’s arms were spread wide, while Amina’s were pressed to her sides, her book, with its stained red-cloth cover, under her thigh.
“What do you want?” he whispered.
“What do you have?”
Someone laughed outside.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that.” Papis looked around. He kicked a pebble. It tumbled toward Jeeg, resting by the wall. She raised her head, then tucked it back over her legs when she saw he held nothing for her to nibble. “Don’t be a fene kat already.”
“I am not a liar,” Mor bit back “Just get out!” Mor charged forward, trying to push Papis onto the path, but Papis didn’t budge.
He was a stump. And with a shove he knocked Mor to the dirt.
“Be warned.” Papis held up one finger. “Because of our shared brother, one touch is all you get. Nothing else will be ignored.”
Stand your ground, my son. Even the mighty have fallen.
Amina murmured in her sleep as Mor got back to his feet.
“Don’t think I haven’t watched you all these days,” Papis said, “with that doff Demba carting you and fish around the village on that rickety bike of his.” His hand slapped hard against his own neck, and the buzz of a mosquito vanished. He flicked it off his skin. “I know you have more than you need. Especially when you sell to that market woman. That should be shared with your new brothers, no?” His eyes shifted from Mor to a green pot in the corner with a dishcloth draped over it.
“I told you. We have nothing.”
“And I told you, I don’t believe you.” Papis stepped forward, letting the door covering fall behind him. “So I guess I will see for myself.”
Mor blinked, readjusting his sight to the dim light that came through the cloth-covered window. Amina grumbled and opened her eyes. Then they flashed wide when she saw a boy standing in the center of their floor.
“Mor?” Amina pulled Fatima back.
“Mina, stop,” Fatima whined. “I don’t want to wake up. . . .” She tried to snuggle against the back of Amina’s shoulder.
“Shhh,” Amina warned. She stretched her arm behind her, cradling her sister. She looked at her brother and then at the boy hovering inches away.
“Get out,” Mor demanded.
Instead Papis bent down and snatched the cloth off the dented pot.
It was empty.
His eyes swept around the room. Within three long strides he was at the far wall of the barak. He searched its only shelf and knocked over the picture of Mor’s parents that rested between a box of matches and a burned-out candle.
“Leave our things alone. You’ve already stolen enough.” Mor glared at Papis and snatched the picture off the floor before it got stepped on. Mor’s bed mat covered most of the open floor. Papis traipsed across it, tracking dirt.
“I don’t have time for hiding games.” Papis’s eyes locked on something white under the raised platform Amina and Fatima slept on. “You do not want me to leave here empty-handed.”
“Come on, man,” the person outside whined, impatient.
“Nopil” shot from Papis’s mouth. The voice went quiet. Papis reached Mor’s sisters before Mor could stop him. He crouched and yanked at the cloth covering the partially hidden plastic bowl, causing Fatima to jump. Awake.
In a panic she kicked out, knocking Amina’s red book against Papis’s shoulder. Amina scrabbled to reach it. But as if Papis sensed her love for it, he tossed it carelessly out the doorway.
The boys outside scoffed. “What are we supposed to do with this?”
Mor heard a rip and the scratch of paper. He glanced at his sister, whose jaw was set and whose face was as hard as the floor he slept on.
“No.” Mor ran to the doorway and snatched the door cover back. The pages of Amina’s book littered the ground like ash from a fire. He spun and ran over. “Leave us alone!” His voice vibrated and his fists collided with Papis’s back as Papis remained hunched by the uncovered bowl.
Papis jumped up. The back of his hand slammed into Mor’s cheek, knocking him away. “I warned you.”
But Mor didn’t give up. He ran for Papis again. This time the boys outside rushed in to hold him back.
“You stupid khale. I warned you. One touch was all you get.” He shoved Mor to the ground, kicking his foot. Mor tucked himself into a ball as the two boys held him down, one slapping the back of his head.
“M-a-a,” Jeeg bleated, and then ran outside, still tethered.
Fatima cried and Amina pulled her little sister closer. “Get off my brother!” she screamed.
“Ahh.” Papis knelt, ignoring her. His hand went under the pallet. “I knew something was here.”
He had no clue of the silent storm Mor could see erupting inside Amina’s eyes. Papis had discovered a chunk of bread, two small salted fish, a mandarin, and two brown speckled bananas rumbling inside a bowl. With one swoop of his arm he snatched up the food. When one of the bananas dropped onto the dirt floor, he did not bother to pick it up.
“That’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” He winked, tucking the bread under his arm and cramming the other food into his pocket. “Check the rest.” Papis nodded to one of the boys, who let go of Mor and dived under the pallet. “What other treats are under there?”
And like an obedient puppy, the boy scrounged around, pushing aside bags and tossing out tin cups.
Then once he reached behind the last box, Mor’s heart froze.
The boy’s legs stopped flailing. He’d found something.
He crawled out and handed a bundle wrapped in cloth to
Papis.
“Don’t touch that.” Mor bucked against the dirt and the other boy, struggling. He’d almost made it to his feet when the boy who’d rooted around under the pallet crashed into his legs, sending him to the ground again.
“Stop it!” Amina screamed as Fatima cried.
“Nice,” Papis said, ignoring them as he removed the cloth from around the Dieg Bou Diar tomato can. “Ah, I think I will hold on to this.” He scooped out the folded notes their bàjjan had given them, then tilted the can, letting all the coins Mor had earned run into his palm. They sounded like pebbles hitting tin.
It was everything they had.
Don’t let your fight leave you, his father encouraged. You must still be strong.
Mor squirmed, but he couldn’t break free. He kicked and clawed, watching Papis shove all he and his sisters had into his pocket.
“You are a thief!” Amina shouted, still cradling a crying Fatima.
But as quickly as Papis had slunk into their barak, he was gone. The other Danka Boys released Mor with one final kick to his side.
You will need your strength and a plan. This fight will not soon be over, his baay warned as Mor rushed for the doorway, ready to chase the Danka Boys.
When he smashed the door cover back, he saw the pages of Amina’s book flying in the wind like eggshell-colored birds.
He paused only for a moment. The Iéna Academy pamphlet was balled on the ground. Mor jumped over all of it and sprinted across the dirt. He ran down the path after the boys, his bare feet slamming against their footprints.
“Eh,” one of the Danka Boys said, looking back. “You want some more?” He raised his fist.
Then Papis turned, smirking, walking backward, chomping on Mor’s banana. “See you again when you have our fish.”
Mor halted, heaving. He knew it was no use. His baay was right. He would need his strength and a plan. There was only one of him against a cete of badgers. He watched, helpless, as they strolled down the path, laughing, with his family’s money and their food.
Before he even reached his family’s barak, he heard Fatima’s cries against the silence of the early morning. He was surprised none of his neighbors heard her as well. The sound, and the sight of Amina crouched in the dirt, gathering the pages of her torn book, shattered him. As he neared their door, he reached down and picked up the pages that were drifting away.
“I’m sorry.” He could hardly get the words out as he handed her the shredded pieces of her book. He went to pick up her crumpled pamphlet.
“Leave it” was all she said, turning away.
“We will be all right, Mina. I will make this better. . . .” Mor wanted to promise it, but he didn’t. He was already breaking enough promises after less than two weeks on their own.
“How?” She spun around to face him. “They have turned it so the sun is in the dirt and the dirt is in the sky. No. We will not be all right.” She snatched another page up from the ground. The fire in her eyes raged. “You need to watch yourself.” She batted the pages in her hand toward him. “Why have they singled you out? Where have they come from? Maybe they heard we were alone, I don’t know, but I do know this will not end today. Bananas and two small fish will never be enough to satisfy boys like that. With them you are either friend or the innards of a fish, and today you are the guts being yanked out and tossed aside.”
Mor didn’t dare tell her about Cheikh’s return or that he might have brought the boys to their door. Nothing he could say would bring her comfort. She had spoken a truth he was just beginning to realize. There was a divide in the road he traveled, and now he had to choose a side.
THE Danka Boys had caught Mor’s scent and were on his trail. Like a cackle of hyenas, they circled around him. For some reason they weren’t going to leave him alone.
And his friend Cheikh had led them right to him and his sisters. They had taken everything from them. Even Amina’s book.
Mor remembered when Ms. Renée, a volunteer from an aid organization, had given it to her. It had been Ms. Renée’s favorite book when she was Amina’s age, and she’d carried it to West Africa for company. But when she’d seen how much Amina loved to read, she’d given it to her as a present. Although Amina couldn’t make out all the words back then, Ms. Renée had assured her she’d grow into them, like she would grow into herself. And every day Amina had sat on the stump at the front of the barak while the light was bright, between her chores, and read, her face buried in the pages. She’d even read as she walked from school, lost to the days, her eyes racing across the black ink on each cream-colored page.
Their baay had often teased her that she’d miss the world going on around her because of that book, and Amina had always said, “But there are worlds in here I would never know.” Their baay had smiled then and joked, “Then I will let you be lost for now, but there will always be a lampe tempête in Lat Mata to guide you back home.” She would smile absently and turn her page.
But now her book was in tatters.
She sat on the floor, the pages and pieces spread in front of her. Fatima was curled on the pallet, her thumb in her mouth, having finally cried herself back to sleep. The orange light of morning pushed through the window covering as Mor readied to leave. Silence lay between him and Amina. He placed his téere, his protection, up on his arm, knowing he needed it more than ever, and turned just as his yaay’s spirit became clear beside Jeeg, a blur of brightness coming into focus. The light around her was a dim golden halo. Jeeg cooed as Yaay stroked behind her ears. How Mor wished she would stroke behind his, too. She reached out a hand to his cheek. He closed his eyes and remained still for the briefest of moments, trying not to miss a second of her touch. When he opened them, her eyes were resting on Amina and all the torn and crinkled pages around her. She glided away from Mor and stroked Amina’s back as Amina stacked page after page in order. Little mounds of the torn pages grew in the dirt next to Fatima’s rock dolls, which lay in a circle on floor.
The dolls were nothing but misshapen rocks Fatima had collected and imagined were her real friends, having them talk and dance around the yard. Though when Mor moved to get nearer to their yaay, he realized the rocks had been carefully painted with faces. Some smiling, some not. Scraps of cloth covered their little bodies. When he peered even closer, he saw there were two male rocks and three female rocks, one draped in a mini boubou and a head wrap, made from an old sër of their mother’s that had ripped. Then it hit him like a crashing wave. The rocks depicted his family. Two of the rocks were bigger than the others, while yet another was a slumbering goat.
Mor turned toward Amina, breaking the silence. “When did you make these for Tima?”
Amina looked up, pages in her hand. “When you were not around.” Her tone poked at him. He tried to ignore it.
“I didn’t know you painted.”
“You don’t know a lot about me.”
That time her words left a bruise. “I’m sorry.”
She watched him for a moment, then returned to her book. Her finger hovered over the page numbers. Mor looked to where their mother’s spirit had been, but it was gone. No bright light. No good-bye.
All Mor wanted was to curl into a ball on the floor and never straighten again.
Do not slump in a sludge of pity. It does not shake from your skin so easy. Use that energy to step forward on your path.
Mor wanted to ignore his baay. He wanted his yaay back.
We are both here for you, my son. But now is not the time for coddling and softening gestures. Now is a time to knock off fear.
Mor glanced at Amina, seeing if there was any hint that she heard their baay.
You see your sister is ready to charge like a ram, but I want you to stand for them. Step from the shelter into the heat and the light.
As he moved to the doorway to leave, he felt Amina’s eyes on him and turned.
“When the sun is fully out and more people are in the streets, take Fatima to the market. There is a nice woman the
re, near the last stall, named Basmah. She will give you bread and beans. Tell her I will bring her coins and fish. I’d go myself, but I don’t want to keep Demba waiting. Please stay in the eye of the market today.”
“We’ll just go to Tanta Coumba.”
“Tanta Coumba is not taking care of us. I am. Think, Mina. She might call Auntie to come get us if you worry her with this.”
Amina cut her eyes at her brother. Mor could tell by the way she swished her lips from side to side that she had more to say—but she didn’t. She busied herself with the stacks of pages covering the floor.
“Bring Jeeg with you. I do not trust having her here alone.” And with that he stepped out of the barak to whatever awaited him.
With each step he searched the nearly empty path. The shadows played with his mind all the way to the beach and Demba. No Danka Boys in sight. Only chickens clucking around a yard, and a couple of the village men setting off for the beach ahead of him. Some nodded a good morning, but most kept their distance because of Demba. Those who had known Mor’s father tried to warn him to stay away from “that doff fool.”
Mor ignored their talk.
Demba was slowly becoming a friend.
When Mor approached the beach, many of the other gaals had already pushed off, but Demba sat waiting for him, breaking sticks in the sand. Since that first day Demba had never said anything about Mor joining him out on the water, but each morning he was always there waiting, not leaving until Mor arrived.
Every time Mor saw him, he let out a relieved sigh. “Assalamu alaikum,” Mor greeted him, nodding. As Demba’s lips moved, Mor was sure some of the garble of words was “and upon you the peace.”
When they had pushed the gaal far enough out to sea, Mor climbed in as Demba revved the engine. Demba didn’t use the wrench anymore to bang the stubborn motor, since he had Mor. Like Demba, the bullheaded engine had also become Mor’s friend, puttering and stuttering most days.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 15