One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  He dragged the knife blade across it, and the hilt caught a ray of sunlight. Mor’s body tensed.

  One of the goats wailed a steady m-a-a.

  “Hold it down,” Diallo shouted as they disappeared behind the car again.

  In the sliver of space between the car and the ground, Mor could barely make out the whitish-pink belly of a goat with its legs strapped together. There was no way to tell if it was Jeeg, though. Two goats’ tails twitched above the car’s hood, and Mor lay helpless and panicked as he heard the trapped goat buck and m-a-a.

  Then there was silence.

  “That’s not how you do it.” Abou’s voice broke through the quiet.

  “You think you know better than me?” Diallo snapped. “I’ve been doing this since you were still in Yaay’s belly.”

  “Liar,” Abou retorted. “You’re only eight minutes older than me.”

  “And those eight minutes show that you were too stupid to know it was time to come out,” Diallo snarled. “That’s why your head is like a pear. They had to tug you out.”

  “Not true,” Abou shouted. “It shows how ready Yaay was to push you out. She didn’t want you then, and she doesn’t want—”

  Something crashed against the car.

  Then Mor saw legs together, flailing and churning up dust. The brothers tumbled into view, grabbing at each other. Diallo tried to press the knife toward Abou’s face, but his elbow was trapped under the weight of Abou’s body. They jammed together, making it hard for either of them to throw a punch or even move. They were a knot rolling across the dirt, away from the goats.

  Strike, my son.

  Mor did not need to be told.

  Dashing away from the protection of the trunk, he hurried around to the back of the rusted car. His heart thudded, blocking out all else. Through the open space where the car doors had been, he watched as the two Danka Boys continued to pummel each other in the dirt. Nothing but the next punch, slap, or scrape seemed important to them. Mor scrabbled to the side of the car, stealing a glance around the broken headlight. Sensing a presence, the goats scooted out of his reach, scared.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered.

  He crawled closer, reaching for their ropes, which were tied to a stake in the ground. Then he stopped. A limp goat lay in front of him. He hoped its chest would rise. Then he saw it. A trail of blood stained the fur at its neck. It dripped into the reddish-brown dirt, turning it black. Scrambling to the goat’s side, he brushed away the cracking, caked-on mud over its flank. There was blue paint, but no rolling waves. And no red sun.

  It wasn’t Jeeg.

  Mor hustled to the knots, frantic to untie them. The goats shielded him, but for how long? The boys could look up at any moment. The knots wouldn’t budge.

  He turned to the two goats, thinking he could loosen the knots at their necks. One of them instantly butted against him. It was Jeeg. Mor wanted to rub the hair at the bridge of her nose like she liked, but there was no time. Working on the knot, he glanced up every few seconds.

  The boys still wrestled in the low grass. A string of insults trailed them.

  By the time Mor finally got Jeeg free, the skin of his fingertips was scratched and peeled and freckled with pricks of blood. Ignoring it, he pushed Jeeg toward the back of the car.

  “Go,” he urged.

  But she wouldn’t leave his side.

  He knew he needed to take off running with her, but he couldn’t leave the trapped goat. He tried with all his might to unfasten the knot at its neck, but it wasn’t coming loose. He yanked on it, then tugged on it, and the trapped goat let out a m-a-a that could have woken any hibernating beast.

  Mor didn’t think, he flew, diving behind the car with Jeeg, then peeking around it.

  Diallo flung Abou to the side. Dust clouded the air. Mor heard his own heart pound in his ears.

  “Shut up,” Diallo shouted, looking toward the car and the left-behind goat.

  “Who are you telling to shut up?” Abou kicked at his brother.

  “Who are you kicking? I was talking about the goat.” He slapped his brother on the side of his head.

  And they were fighting again.

  Grunts and huffs signaled Mor’s chance to run. He and Jeeg streaked away from the car, leaving the other goat behind. They sprinted toward another baobab tree, farther away. This one was even more enormous than the first, with a hollowed-out space in the trunk. Mor squeezed Jeeg inside, then shimmied in beside her, glad that the area made for sacrifices held no bones, beads, or pot offerings to the spirits, only streams of melted white candle wax. Mor pulled at the grasses around the mouth of the tree and piled them high. As he grabbed for more, Jeeg nibbled their camouflage.

  “No.” Mor jerked her head back.

  Her little bites had made a perfect spy hole. He had a concealed view of everything around him. But if he and Jeeg moved too much, the boys would have a perfect view of them. There was no way they could get away together unseen across such a barren landscape.

  They would have to wait.

  DO not burden your shoulders with the blame of that slaughtered animal. Or wring your hands, ashamed of the one left tangled. Casualties are birthed in war. And there is no cowardice in waiting for the enemy to retreat. . . .

  The words of Mor’s father helped settle his breathing and his guilt as the Danka Boys continued whirling insults at each other.

  As Mor hunkered down, ready for a long wait, Jeeg let out a low m-a-a and dug her hooves into the dirt, attempting to get out of the hollowed tree trunk. Desperate to quiet her, Mor clamped his hand over her mouth and used his body to press her down. The more he tried to restrain her, the louder her cries grew. So he let her go.

  Then, in a slow, casual chomping, she started eating their grass wall again. This time Mor didn’t stop her. As the grass cleared, Mor glanced around the area just beyond their hideout.

  Suddenly Abou bounded in Mor and Jeeg’s direction, his red T-shirt ballooning at his back. Diallo took up the chase. Neither of the boys slowed long enough to notice the missing goat.

  They were so close to the tree, the dust sailed into Mor’s eyes. All they had to do was turn, and Mor and Jeeg’s hiding place would be revealed. “Eh!” a voice rang out. Alarm straightened Mor’s spine. A new fear grabbed him.

  “Get up, you fools.” In a few gaping strides Cheikh was in front of the tree. He pried the brothers apart. “Enough, before my foot jumps in to end this for good.”

  Cheikh shoved the brothers away from the opening of the tree, but Mor did not relax.

  Even though Cheikh was only one person, Mor was certain he could’ve taken on the two thieves and won.

  A pleading m-a-a sounded from behind the car, and Cheikh stopped. Then he dragged the boys toward the rusted vehicle.

  “Where’d these come from?” Cheikh insisted.

  He stared at Abou.

  Abou shrugged, shrinking under Cheikh’s stare. “We just grabbed ’em.”

  “It’s no big deal, man,” Diallo added. “One of them is from that khale’s place. He has no parents to tell.”

  Mor scrunched up his lips and balled his fists.

  “It was easy,” Diallo snickered. “No one was there.”

  His sisters were safe.

  “Wait.” Diallo whirled around. “Where’s that other goat?”

  Both Cheikh and Abou scanned the area. Mor slunk back, pulling Jeeg with him.

  “I told you to tie it tight.” Diallo glared at Abou.

  “Who cares,” Cheikh interjected, shoving the brothers. “You should be glad it ran off. That’s one less owner coming after your necks.” He untied the knot around the other goat’s neck and kicked it into running as it bleated at the air.

  “Hey,” Abou whined.

  Cheikh shot a sideways look at him. “Now do something with this one.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.” Diallo scrunched up his lips.

  “Nor do I want to be.” Cheikh stepped inches from D
iallo’s face. Neither blinked.

  “Skin it, and cook it here. And hurry up before someone comes,” Cheikh said, turning away.

  “No one would dare come to our fire pit unless they want trouble.” Diallo raised a fist. “Besides, no one knows this place but us and a few girls.” He smirked.

  For the first time Mor saw letters painted in red on the side of the rusted white car. They read Danka Boys, with trails of dry paint running down from each letter.

  “Just hurry up.” Cheikh nodded toward the ground. “And make sure you burn away the branding before you go carrying off the skin.”

  “I know,” Diallo snapped.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Cheikh said, turning away. “We don’t want your mess to follow you back to Mahktar.” He shook his head and pounded across the dirt. He strode right by the tree Mor and Jeeg hid in, not slowing his pace.

  Mor finally exhaled.

  AFTER Cheikh left, Mor and Jeeg lay hidden, soon growing tired of Abou’s and Diallo’s constant insults. They couldn’t talk to each other without a jab, a kick, or an unkind word being thrown. Finally, after what felt like another endless hour crammed in the hollow of a tree, Mor and Jeeg found their chance to run. While Abou and Diallo fought over how to build a fire, Mor pushed Jeeg from their hiding place, tugging at her neck until she followed.

  “Go, girl. Let’s go,” he urged Jeeg as he picked up the pace, trying to put as much distance between him and the Danka Boys as he could. He knew Amina and Fatima must be frantic with worry. It was long past the time he usually got home, and Jeeg wasn’t there either. He was also certain Amina would weigh him down with questions when she saw him.

  The late afternoon sun got lost behind heavy gray clouds, causing it to grow dark. There were no homes around them, only the thatched peaks and rippling roofs in the distance near Lat Mata. Mor listened and searched the land for any signs of other Danka Boys.

  Jeeg trotted close at his side as rain started to fall. By the time they reached the path near their family home, they were soaked and mud splotches covered their legs. Mor stepped into the tiny clearing outside his house, out of breath, then halted in the mud. Demba sat drenched in the rain, swaying back and forth, mumbling to himself. When he glanced up, raindrops webbed his lashes. He rubbed his thumb across something in his hand.

  “Demba,” Mor shouted, thankful to see a friend. “You’ll never believe what happened to Jeeg and me.” He rushed forward as Demba got to his feet. The rain pressed Demba’s knee-length shirt to his skin. The legs of his gray toubëy were also soaked through.

  “Beauty’s worry tramples the mud.” His words competed with the pouring rain, but Mor had heard them.

  Demba said nothing else. Instead he pressed what he held into Mor’s palm. It was a flat, elongated stone. Then he lifted his bike, which rested against the barak, turned onto the path, and left.

  Mor watched him go.

  “Mor, is that you?” Amina yanked back the door covering, drawing his attention. She ran out in bare feet. “Where have you been? Have you seen Jeeg? How could you leave us to worry like this?”

  “Amina, Amina. Stop assaulting him,” Tanta Coumba called from inside over Fatima’s sniffles and cries. “Both of you come inside before the rain takes your health.”

  When Mor and Amina stepped inside, Tanta Coumba threw up her arms. “Thanks be to Allah. You are safe.”

  “Mor,” Fatima heaved, still crying. She bolted out of Tanta Coumba’s lap to hug her brother. “Jeeg is missing too.”

  But before he could respond, Jeeg bounded through the doorway, wet fur slicked to her body.

  “Jeeg!” Fatima let go of her brother and clasped her arms around Jeeg’s neck. Jeeg bleated.

  “Where have you been?” Amina asked again, then sneezed. “We have been worrying.” She nodded toward Tanta Coumba’s daughter, her best friend, who knelt on the floor with Fatima’s rocks. “Naza and I have been everywhere in this rain looking for you. First we went to the market, then to the lot where you play. No one saw you all day. Then we went back to the market and to Tanta Basmah. She brought us to Demba. He searched for you too and told us to wait here with Tanta Coumba.”

  “He didn’t want to stop searching,” Tanta Coumba added. “I demanded he come out of the rain for a bit, but he refused. Instead he paced and sat outside, scanning each path to your yard.”

  “He has waited with us for hours.” Amina looked her brother up and down, her hands on her hips.

  Tanta Coumba agreed, nodding. “This is not like a child of Awa’s, causing others so much worry.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Mor began. “Two boys stole Jeeg this afternoon.”

  “Why not go for help? Thieves do not care who they hurt.”

  “There wasn’t time,” Mor said. “I would’ve lost them.”

  Remembering how Papis had reacted to the first threat of the police, Mor worried that telling her any more might bring added trouble to his family if all the Danka Boys weren’t caught. Papis had threatened the shopkeeper in view of so many and had not been scared.

  “Jeeg is back and I am fine. We’ll be okay.”

  Amina and Fatima stayed quiet, though Amina twisted and squirmed like she wanted to speak.

  Mor rubbed his thumb against the long, smooth rock Demba had given him.

  Tanta Coumba frowned. “I will not sleep easy tonight knowing this. Collect dry clothes. You will be spreading your pallets under my roof.”

  “But we’re fine,” Mor objected. “We can stay here.”

  She shook her head. “No. I will not hear of it. You will at least stay the night with me. I couldn’t face Dieynaba if something happened to you.”

  Mor nodded, ready to end the conversation before it led to having to name the Danka Boys.

  When Mor woke the following morning, achy and sore, he felt something hard pressing into his spine and tensed. Where was Jeeg? Were they still trapped in the gut of the mighty baobab? But when he opened his eyes, he saw Jeeg tucked by a wall and remembered.

  They were all at Tanta Coumba’s.

  Relieved, he flicked at what pressed into his back. It was the flat rock Demba had given him. He turned it over in his hand, wondering what it was for. He twisted to see Fatima close behind him, her bony knees poking him too. From where he lay, he could see Amina on the pallet in Cheikh’s room, alone. She was turned toward the wall near where he’d seen his mother’s nafa. But there was no way to search without waking her.

  Although he wanted to stay and try, he knew the fish were not asleep and neither probably was Demba. His body still ached from being crammed in the hollow of the tree. He ignored it and got up to pray. At the doorway he glanced back as a sleepy Fatima got off the floor, eyes barely open, and went into the room with Amina. She crawled onto the raised pallet and was soon fast asleep again. On the floor by Mor’s mat was their rock family. He went back and placed the one Demba had given him on the floor with them.

  Walking out the door, he did not worry about his sisters’ safety for the first time in a long time. Once outside, he made his way past scrawny goats, and a few loose chickens pecking at tiny stones. Small green tomatoes grew on vines in Tanta Coumba’s tiny garden. As he turned down the deserted path that led to the beach, he felt someone join him.

  He turned to find Cheikh.

  Tired, and worried, Mor almost sounded like he was begging when he spoke. “What do you want? Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

  “I’ve told you what I want. What I think you need. Join us.”

  “Why do you even pretend to care?” Mor stepped back toward Cheikh. In his exhaustion he seemed to find strength. “Are you the one who put my home under his nose? There are so many others who have more than me.”

  “None that are so easy to pluck from,” Cheikh said. “It’s simple. He’s seen you are alone now and is restless.”

  “And he’s your friend?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Cheikh said, looking past Mor at
two men heading up the path. Mor followed Cheikh’s gaze. When he turned back, Cheikh had slipped into the shadow cast by the nearest barak. They didn’t know the men, so Cheikh stepped back out. “He has done a lot for me.”

  “But you are sneaking past your mother’s house like a fox after chickens? Why haven’t you gone home? Are you ashamed?”

  “Stop talking about things you don’t understand.” He lowered his voice as the men passed, nodding good morning.

  “Then tell me. I want to understand,” Mor pleaded. He really did want to know why his friend had chosen this boy over him and his own family.

  Cheikh was quiet for a long time. “My mother will have no choice. My father will send me back. Even though he has moved away and has little time for us, she is still his wife. He wants me at that daara. But I will not go back.” Cheikh shook his head, as if trying to wipe away a memory. “Never.”

  “But why? What was so wrong?”

  “I never had enough.”

  “Enough what?” Mor almost felt as if he were standing in the sand with his old friend again.

  “Enough of everything. Rice, money, whatever they asked me to get. I never had enough. But Papis always did. He had enough food. Enough money. But more than that, enough will to take the blows for me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Cheikh glanced around again, then slowly lifted his shirt. Healed-over slices crisscrossed his back.

  “What happened to you?” Mor rushed forward, about to touch his friend’s skin, but Cheikh lowered his shirt before he could.

  “That slash over Papis’s eye is for me. He stepped in front of the whip when I’d had enough. Then he helped me escape with him. I can never go back to that.”

  Mor wanted to say maybe Cheikh’s dad would understand, but he knew he wouldn’t. He was a man who did not tolerate weakness, and Cheikh running would be considered weak. Cheikh was right. His father would send him back.