As usual, they motored past the other gaals and the quiet snickers in search of swarming birds. Mor sat at the front, holding tight, welcoming the cool spray on his face, trying to forget his earlier morning visit. Fear gurgled inside his belly, and he wished he could shake it off like he had his fear of the open sea, and Demba.
Without having to be told, Mor turned and started readying the netting when Demba slowed the engine, turning in the direction of a cloud of birds diving into the water.
Once the boat had settled, rocking with the waves, they swung their bodies in unison, releasing the net. It floated on the water, soon disappearing as schools of fish frantically swam this way and that. And then together, in one joined heave, they tugged the netting closed, trapping the squirming fish. Ever since the first time overboard, Mor had been careful to brace his bare foot on the edge of the gaal for leverage as they hauled the catch onboard.
Demba watched Mor with eyes of a hawk.
“Storm clouds circle,” Demba muttered as they separated the fish, whose blush-colored scales mirrored the rays of the sun as their mouths puckered at the foreign air, hoping for salted water.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but Demba was right. Storm clouds did circle Mor.
With each day Mor understood more and more of what Demba said and meant. As his baay had asked him when his voice first came to him, he was listening.
“Rain dances your spirit wet.”
“But I’ll be fine,” Mor said. “I have to be. I will find a way to dry.” Mor whispered the last words, still shaken and bruised by the morning.
He did not want to burden his friend with it. His cuts and reddening skin were his own, well hidden by his shirt and shorts. There was nothing Demba could do anyway.
Demba’s eyes surveyed Mor’s body, lingering on his hands and then his head, as if he could see through the fabric to Mor’s forming bruises. Mor looked down at his own small hands, wishing they were powerful like Demba’s, and like his baay’s had been. Once he’d thrown the last of the fish into the buckets, Demba poured in salt water, to the relief of the twitching fish. The engine came to life again with a chugging cough as Demba turned the boat toward the shore.
Mor glanced down into the half-full buckets. “Are we going to another spot? There are plenty more fish out there to catch.” He thought of the extra money he needed to make and the crumpled school pamphlet, with the girls in their bright-green uniforms, left in the dirt.
Demba shook his head and kept on his course. When they were closer to the shore, away from all the boats, he turned off his engine. Mor looked around. They had never fished so close to land before. They would be lucky to bring in a handful.
“Are you sure?” Mor asked. “This seems an unlikely spot to catch anything.” But before Mor could ready the netting, Demba dived into the water.
Mor stared over the lip of the boat, disbelieving. When Demba rocketed up out of the sea like a whale, a spray of water left his lips. His dreadlocks bobbed around him like an octopus’s tentacles. Mor smiled down at him. Then in a flash Demba’s arms came up and grabbed Mor’s, flipping him over the boat’s edge. Mor screamed as he crashed into the water, flopping about. His smile disappeared as he tried to keep his head above the frothing liquid.
“Demba, this isn’t . . .” He took in a mouthful of water. “Khak! Khak! I . . . can’t swim.” As he flailed, he was certain he saw the makings of a smile cross Demba’s lips, but as quickly as he saw it, it disappeared.
His feet jerked and his hands thrashed the water. He was going to sink. Demba treaded calmly beside him, as if he had sprouted gills and a fin. “Ndokh mi niak la ci sa soufou tankayi,” Demba muttered. This time Mor couldn’t put it all together. It made no sense. The sea wasn’t grass under his feet, and the waves weren’t flowers at his fingertips. He didn’t have time to figure it out before his head dropped underwater again.
Like the first time over a week before, Mor panicked as the water locked over his head. His eyes burned in the sting of salt. Water filled his open mouth.
Mor couldn’t calm himself. He couldn’t break the surface of the water, no matter how he tried. Then two strong arms propelled him up like a jumping fish. Demba held on to the back of Mor’s shorts and did not let go as Mor splashed about, regaining his breath.
“That wasn’t funny,” Mor yelled. “Let me back on the gaal.” But when he looked at where he thought the boat should be, either it had moved or he had. Panic filled him again, until he saw it floating on the waves a little ways away. “We need to get back before it gets too far,” Mor said, worried.
Demba made no move to hurry. He continued to float on his back, still holding Mor’s shorts. Suddenly Mor realized he was free to push with his arms and kick with his legs without worry of sinking. It was much like he had started to learn to do with Cheikh so many summers before. But unlike Cheikh, Demba was still there, by his side, helping him swim.
He swam in circles for a while as Demba held him, remembering some of the strokes Cheikh had taught him. When they turned to swim for the gaal, Mor noticed both of Demba’s arms cutting through the water, one after the other. He was no longer holding Mor up. At first Mor almost faltered, but Demba flipped onto his back, arm raised, ready if Mor needed him. At that moment Mor could do it himself, but knowing help was beside him made the journey a little less scary. He did not have to do it all on his own.
MOR twisted in his sleep, smiling. His head was pressed into his yaay’s old cloth, and he was thinking of Demba’s words from a week before: “Fridays are castles for kings, adventures with brother, kicking games and resting waves.”
At first he hadn’t realized what Demba meant by it all, but now, after his second week on the water with him, Mor welcomed the free day to go to the mosque early like he had always done with his baay and to play le foot with his friends late into the afternoon.
The first Friday, when he had reached the beach and found no trace of Demba or his bike, he had wandered around lost. Demba’s boat was there, but there was no Demba. Mor went to the dressmaker, asking after his friend.
“Ahh, today is his day with Idrissa,” the man said. Again it was the name those women had called Mor.
“But who is Idrissa? Where does he live?”
The man glanced down at Mor, slowly rubbing his belly as if he didn’t realize it. A toothpick swung up and down between his teeth.
“You do not know of Idrissa? Of course you wouldn’t. Demba would never say anything to you of the one you favor. He is down that way under the crosses. Besides Demba and the scraggly grasses, they are all that rest out there.”
Mor looked where the man pointed. The only thing he knew to be at the end of the road was the cemetery, shared by both Muslims and Christians. His baay and yaay were buried there. It overlooked the water.
“When did he die?” Mor tried to ignore thoughts of his father’s burial and the dirt closing over him. He didn’t want to be sad, but sadness never waited for anyone to be ready.
“Allah took him long ago,” the dressmaker said. “He was just about your age, a few years younger than Demba. Fridays are for Idrissa. Demba and his birds sit with Idrissa every Friday morning, telling him of the week they would have had together. Idrissa died on a Friday morning.”
“How did he die?” Mor asked, grateful to finally be learning something about his friend.
“Sickness touched his young brother’s heart, and there were no medicines, barks, leaves, or brews that could cure him. That time left a scar on Demba. After that he journeyed far and wide to learn all he could about the herbs and the plants around him.”
“He lost his little brother?” Mor said, more to himself than to the dressmaker. He couldn’t imagine how he’d feel if he lost either Fatima or Amina. He was doing everything in his power to keep them with him now. “He’s still sad?”
“There are days,” the dressmaker said. “But since you’ve come onto his path, they come less and less. I suspect you are good for Demb
a, and he is good for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Mor had said, walking away from the man’s shop and the whir of the sewing machines.
When Mor opened his eyes this Friday, his sisters’ pallet was empty. He flung himself up, searching, frantic. Then as he watched Jeeg riffle in a bowl of orange peels, he remembered they were joining Tanta Coumba and her daughters for a trip to the market. Together. They were safe. Relief poured through him, but so did guilt. Keeping the news of Cheikh’s being home left him feeling miserable. Tanta Coumba had helped them to stay, and holding on to this secret was an awful way to repay her. But he had no choice. Telling wasn’t a chance he could afford to take.
“Lahilaha IlAllah . . . ,” intoned the imam.
Mor lowered his head and whispered, “Mohamed is his messenger.”
The other men around him in the mosque did the same.
Following the prayer as his baay had shown him, Mor bowed, bent, and rose with the tide of faithful bodies. Since the Danka Boys had come to his door, he had been so worried about where he would find the money that he and his sisters needed just to survive, along with the money for Amina’s school. He had promised her, and it was that and the hope of keeping his promise to his father that kept him going. And as he gave his problems over to Allah, he felt better. When his doubts were fierce, he would often forget that. Then in a reflective moment, when he was alone, he would call on him, no longer turning away.
After he finished his prayers and left the mosque, he headed farther away from the noise of the market. He was excited to spend the rest of the day with Oumar and his other friends, kicking the soccer ball and forgetting all he had to do—at least for a couple of hours.
Mor dragged his hand along a high wall as he ambled along the path. A crooked smile set on his lips when he realized he hadn’t seen the Danka Boys in a week. Not trusting that they wouldn’t appear at their home again, he’d found new hiding places for the little bit of coins he’d started to save again.
But even when they weren’t around, they still filled his thoughts. He did not trust they would stay quiet forever, yet he still welcomed the break. He picked up his speed down the road, ready to get to his friends. There was silence all around him on the empty path, with most people still praying in the mosque or bartering in the market.
Then Mor heard breathy whispers.
“Let’s bring them down to the pit,” someone said. The voice was gruff and forceful, but that of a boy, not a man. It carried in the hush of the day.
“Why don’t we take them back to Mahktar?” another boy asked. His voice was a little higher in pitch.
Mor stopped running.
“Because you don’t just bring someone else’s goats to your front door, badola.”
Mor blocked out all other sound. He knew those voices.
“Who you calling a dummy? Dummy.” The pitch of the boy’s voice rose and cracked. Then something banged against the wall and his words got muffled.
Mor rushed forward, nearer to the entrance of the alley. As he moved closer, shuffling feet and heavy grunts met his ears. He tilted his head and peeked. A frail-looking boy with knobby elbows and knees with dark scabs was sandwiched between another boy and the wall. Three goats were pressed together beside them, trying to avoid being crushed or fallen on as the boys wrestled. Mor sprang back as one of the boys stumbled toward the corner where he hid.
“Shut up,” one hissed.
“No, you,” the other countered. “You started it.”
“Get off me, Abou.” The boy’s bristly roar grew strained.
The scuffling stopped.
Mor knew if he glanced around the wall right then, he would come face-to-face with them. “Come on. We need to get them out of here.”
Mor crouched low against the wall and took a chance. When he peeked, the boys’ backs were to him. One of them yanked at the ropes knotted around three goats’ necks, while the other, scruffier boy, with dust coating the side of his face and hair, shoved against their haunches. The goats didn’t budge. No matter how hard the boys pushed and tugged, the animals stayed locked in place, moving only an inch when their necks were in danger of snapping.
“Diallo, they don’t want to move,” Abou observed.
Diallo hustled forward. His open plaid shirt whipped behind him, revealing a yellow T-shirt almost brown with grime. He was shorter and sturdier than his accomplice. “Just stop yapping and push.”
They yanked and prodded at the goats some more, but the animals stayed rooted to the path.
“Hold up.” Diallo waved his hand.
“What for?” Abou slackened his grip on the ropes hanging over his shoulder. His arms and legs were covered in healed-over scabs and picked-at blemishes.
“This one needs more mud.” Diallo thrust his finger toward one of the goats as he squatted to grab a clump of pasty dirt. Mor’s eyes followed the direction of Diallo’s hand, smearing mud over the goat’s white fur, to the painted blue waves under a red setting sun.
Jeeg.
Mor surged to his feet, ready to bolt around the corner. Then he froze. Diallo had withdrawn a long silver blade.
Mor feared the thief would cut Jeeg’s neck right there in the alley, or his for trying to save her. But then another thought seized hold of him. Where were his sisters? His panic multiplied.
He prayed they were still with Tanta Coumba and her daughters, Oumy and Naza, around plenty of people.
He tried to calm his racing heart. His gaze flew between the gleaming blade and the path to his home. He wanted to rush to their barak, but he knew if he did, Jeeg would be gone. Think, he demanded silently, think.
He told himself his sisters weren’t home yet. That they were safe. He held tight to this thought, although a pinprick of worry still stabbed at his chest. They are fine, he told himself again. They are fine.
“Why did you tie these knots so tight?” Diallo cut the rope, separating Jeeg from the other two goats. “This one is the problem.” Diallo nudged Jeeg. “It doesn’t want to move, but I bet I can make it.” He poked her just enough with the tip of his knife to get her attention. She started and kicked her hooves out, taking a step. A trickle of blood trailed down her white fur. “See?” he said, nudging her with the knife again.
Mor’s teeth dug into his bottom lip and he jerked forward, wanting to snatch the blade from Diallo’s hand, but he stopped himself. He had to wait for the best moment.
“You take those two”—Diallo motioned to the goats near Abou—“and I’ll deal with this one.”
“Why do I have to take two?” Abou whined. “Who put you in charge?”
“Just move before someone sees us.” Diallo wrapped Jeeg’s rope around his fist and shoved her forward, knocking his knee into her gashes. Her blood smeared his shorts.
Mor wasn’t sure what to do. Should he try to snatch her back? Or run for help? There were two of them, a knife, and endless places for them to go.
Intelligence and calm are the mightiest weapons of a warrior. Not a gun or a blade. His father’s voice rested in the air next to his ear. Yes, they can draw blood in an instant; however, an unrushed and capable mind can battle any man. Patience will reveal the opportunity. Wait for your moment to strike.
Mor’s breathing was erratic. He had to settle himself and think, but there was no time, for when he peered around the wall again, the boys and goats were gone.
Mor darted past where they had stood. He halted at the opening of the next crossing path. He took a quick look around the wall and found no one there, but the goats’ hoofprints and the boys’ footprints glared up at him from the dirt like bread crumbs. He followed them onto another path and then another. When he came to a wider street, with paving bricks stretching across the road, he seemed to have lost them. Looking left and then right, he almost missed them as they scampered around another corner. He took up the chase, keeping a safe distance. Every time they trotted down a deserted path, Mor waited until they turned down another before racing after them
. Mor did not pass any adults on the paths that he could reach out to. Diallo and Abou made sure to keep to deserted back roads, though at times there were gaggles of small children busy with their games while teenage girls, giggling and gossiping, watched over them.
When there were no more corners to turn and no more walls to hide behind, Mor stopped. They had reached the dusty road and flat plains leading out of Lat Mata. He watched as the boys stumbled across the grasses, dragging the reluctant goats behind them. Defeat squirmed up his toes. The thieves had made it. There was no one left to stop them.
No one except Mor.
WHEN the boys became slender stick figures running in the distance, Mor chased after them. He followed them far out of Lat Mata, ducking behind the mammoth trunks of looming baobab trees dotting the open plain. His eyes never left Jeeg. The Danka Boys had strayed far off the main path when they stopped at a junk heap of a car, rusted and tilted in the dirt. Diallo thrust Jeeg’s rope to Abou, and soon she was hidden behind the vehicle with the other two goats.
“Tie one down with this,” Diallo ordered. He threw a thin cord he had taken from inside the trunk to Abou.
“We will feast like kings tonight,” Abou said. “Papis will thank us for our finds. We’ll be big men for the night.”
“You’ll never be a big man,” Diallo teased.
A rock went flying through the air.
Diallo ducked, laughing. He bent behind the car, and all was out of view: the boys, Jeeg, and the knife. Not wasting a second, Mor bolted across the dirt, his concentration fixed on a huge baobab tree close to the car. He let out a heavy breath when his back was safely pressed against the grooves of the tree’s bark. The boys and goats were still blocked by the car when he sneaked a peek around the tree. Rocks circled a large fire pit, enclosing charred firewood, off to the side of the wreck. The seats from the dismantled vehicle ringed it. The car’s tires were submerged in the dirt.
Mor moved along the tree. The base of its trunk twisted itself like heavy rope deep into the dirt. Its roots looped and crossed one another into the soil. Wiggling his body, he wedged himself between the roots, hoping to remain out of sight but still able to see. When he focused back on the car, he saw Diallo standing near the fire pit over a smooth, flat rock.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 16