“But why do you take what doesn’t belong to you? Why do you now inflict pain yourself?” Mor asked instead.
Cheikh shook his head. “I have never taken what doesn’t belong to me or what hasn’t been given.”
“Your friends do. They took all we had. And you took my yaay’s nafa.”
“Before you accuse, be certain,” Cheikh warned. “I stole nothing. I found it.”
“Then where is it?” Mor raised his voice, not caring who heard, but Cheikh glanced around.
“It is in the safest place I knew to put it.”
“The safest place is with me.” Mor tapped his own chest. “It’s my yaay’s.”
“There hasn’t been an opportunity to get it back.” Cheikh slipped to the side of a fence when someone else came into view, passing down the roadway.
“Cheikh,” Mor said when the person was gone, “you can’t keep hiding. There is no life without family.”
“Papis is part of my family now.” Cheikh said it with a certainty Mor couldn’t understand. “He would give anything for me, and I for him.”
“You would even hurt me and my sisters?” Mor whispered, stepping away. “You are my brother.”
“That’s why you should join us. A brother to me would then be a brother to him. Your scent would become his and you would all be safe.”
“I don’t want that scent.” Mor thought of all the things the Danka Boys had done.
Cheikh stared at Mor. “As you protect Jeeg and your sisters, we would protect you. We remember what it was first like to be own our own—making sure there was enough food, and being careful that others didn’t take all we had.”
“But you’re the reason I have to worry. You are the ones taking from us.”
“I’ve warned you; now it’s up to you to decide if you really wish to take care of Mina and Tima.”
Cheikh said their names like he truly knew them, like they were his family. But Mor knew that wasn’t true, because that Cheikh was gone.
Cheikh shrugged, backing away, as another group of men started toward them on the path. “You may not have a better choice.”
Mor watched his friend duck down another path as the men neared where they had been standing. The men glanced in the direction Cheikh had gone, but kept walking. Mor turned Cheikh’s words over in his mind.
Should he really join the Danka Boys?
WHEN Mor reached the beach, his thoughts were full. Cheikh’s words and the marks sliced across his back blocked out everything else. Mor couldn’t believe someone had done that to his friend. Tanta Coumba would never want to send Cheikh back if she knew. But Mor also knew that Cheikh’s baay, who was nothing like his own, would have told him there was no time for a boy’s tears. Mor thought about that day Cheikh had left and how his tears had disgusted his father. His baay had yelled that the daara would make him into a man.
Mor wondered about the daara his bàjjan wanted to send him to in two months. Would it be the same?
When he reached the beach, most of the gaals were already on the water, and hardly any fishermen stood about the shore. There was no sign of Demba or his bike, but his boat was on the sand just as he’d left it. Mor wandered over to the mud wall and sat, wondering if Demba had kept his eyes closed to the morning.
But like Demba had waited for him, he was willing to wait for Demba.
As the sky changed from the pale orange of daybreak to a brilliant blue, bright with light, he continued to wait. Thoughts of Cheikh and the Danka Boys ate away at the minutes. The more Mor thought, the more he got confused, dreading any decision he might make. He had to prove to his aunt that he could take care of his sisters well beyond the summer. He needed money and food, but the Danka Boys were a constant threat to that, and he had less now than he had started with. They had all but wiped away Amina’s dream of going to that fancy school. And now Mor couldn’t even think of attending the local village school if he wanted to try to make the money back. He’d have to work.
But what if he did join them? What would they expect of him?
Mor looked around, wishing Demba were there. Where was he? Even though he had no right to be, Mor started to get annoyed. He jumped down off the wall and paced back and forth in the sand.
Then Demba pedaled into view. A strange, misshapen straw hat with an opening at the top of it rested on his head. His dreadlocks sprouted through the hole. As he rode closer, Mor saw that a new bird clung to a piece of the hat’s raggedy edge. He didn’t think it was real until it craned its tiny head in his direction. He had never seen a bird so at home on a man’s head before. This bird was no bigger than Mor’s fist and was the color of lemons, with black flecks on its wings.
It chirped at Demba’s ear. As if they spoke the same language, Demba raised his palm and the bird hopped onto it. It pecked at the seeds he held there.
“Where have you been?” Mor asked as Demba propped his bicycle against the wall and sat in the sand next to where Mor stood. Mor looked to Demba’s boat and then at Demba.
“Are we not going out?” Mor asked. “I’m ready.” But Demba didn’t appear to be in any rush to move.
Mor sloshed back and forth across the sand in front of him. He stopped and faced Demba. “Are you going to talk to me? Are you angry?” Mor huffed when Demba didn’t answer. He flopped in the sand next to him. After a few minutes he jumped up, pacing again. The Danka Boys and Cheikh did not let his thoughts rest, so neither could his body.
Demba did not seem to mind, though. He simply fed the bird every few minutes, staring out at the water. The waves crashed against the shore, and the salt air lay heavy around them. Mor’s hands were sticky with perspiration. “I’m sorry you spent the night waiting for me,” he mumbled. “I did not mean to cause any of you worry.”
For the first time that day Demba looked in Mor’s direction. The little bird took flight, then settled in another of Demba’s deadlocks. Demba gave a slight nod, then looked back out to sea.
Moments later, without explanation, Demba got up and headed to the boat.
Out on the water the air was cool, smelling of the sea. Usually fishing was a bright spot for Mor, no matter how overcast the sky, but this morning was different. He was too bothered by all the things standing in his way. The sky reflected his mood, turning from a radiant clear blue to a gloomy gray.
Demba ignored the changing colors and sped away from the shore. He headed toward the other boats in the distance.
“Why don’t we go over there?” Mor asked, pointing a distance away from the other boats. He did not want to be around anyone, especially people he knew could turn unkind.
But Demba didn’t listen.
“Demba, I know you hear me,” Mor said. Water lapped at the sides of the gaal, and seagulls soared overhead. Mor could just make out the voices of the fishermen as they approached. As usual, some of them snickered as Demba’s boat glided through an open path between them. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?” Mor added. “We should’ve gone the other way.”
Boats ringed them off their starboard and port sides. Some of the fishermen kept to what they were doing, while a few laughed and pointed at Demba’s peculiar hat with the bird flying around his head. For the first time Mor was embarrassed by the taunts and jeers. He crouched deeper into the boat. He wanted to be invisible.
“Why are you wearing that stupid hat?” he asked in frustration. “Do you want everyone to think you’re strange?” The words launched out of his mouth before he could trap them.
“Did you hear that?” a middle-aged fisherman from the nearest boat chuckled, and pointed at Demba. “The boy finally realizes how doff Demba is.”
Mor was shocked his words had traveled so far.
“Son,” the man called. “Don’t you know it is not a hat at all? He wears a weaverbird nest upon his head, and I think the weaverbird wants it back.” The man gave a hearty laugh.
Mor stared at Demba’s head and realized where he had seen that makeshift hat before. Hoards of them hu
ng in the trees around the village. Occasionally a nest would fall and crash against the ground, but Mor had never seen one on someone’s head. Suddenly the sky, which had quickly piled with storm clouds, sent a sweeping wind sailing on the waves. Out of nowhere a lightning bolt sliced the air. The engine of the mocking fisherman’s gaal rattled.
Then, without warning, it burst into flames.
Fishermen from the boat dived into the water. From other gaals people shouted and motioned for someone to douse water on the engine. The man who’d teased Demba frantically scooped water into a pail, hanging over the side, and flung it on the fire. When the liquid hit the flames, the engine sizzled and the fire went out. Men splashed in the ocean close to the smoking boat but dared not climb back inside until they were sure the flames would not reignite. All at once heads and pointing fingers turned toward Demba, who sat calmly, mumbling to himself, his dreadlocks camouflaging his face as the bird circled its nest.
“It was him,” a fisherman bobbing in the current accused. “He is responsible.”
“Hush, before he sends a wave to drown us all,” another fisherman cautioned, treading water near the smoking gaal.
Mor knew superstitions surrounding water and mystical beliefs wove together with his people’s Islamic faith; however, he’d never seen grown men so scared. He had seen people rush to consult serigne, giving these religious teachers money and other alms to ward off evil spirits, or bring wealth and prosperity to a family, but he was still startled by the certainty of the accusing fingers pointing at Demba even though he’d hardly stirred.
“I told you it is evil he practices with his muttering,” the first fisherman retorted. “Now you all have seen it.”
Mor swung around to face Demba, causing the boat to rock. He was fearful of what the fishermen believed Demba had done.
Is it true? Mor wondered. Did his friend bring evil spirits? Mor had never seen Demba pray or recite a verse from the Koran, but whatever Demba believed or whoever he prayed to, Mor just didn’t want to accept that his friend could be capable of such harm. Then he halted. Was this because of what he’d said? Had his words somehow angered Demba and he’d lost control? Mor didn’t want to believe it.
He touched his tiny amulet on his arm.
Uncertainty crept into his thoughts. And as if Demba had read Mor’s mind, he focused on Mor’s eyes.
“Misfortune’s stamp desires blame. A bright-red bird imprisoned in their colorless cage.” His voice was steady and clear. Mor even understood.
The more time he spent with Demba and watched and listened to him, the more he began to understand how he thought and sometimes how he saw the world. Even though his words were always a puzzle, Mor knew Demba was the bright-red bird that was trapped in a colorless cage, because he was different from those around him. But in no way was Demba doff.
Mor studied his friend. “I am sorry for being mean. You’ve never been the cause of my problems, and I have messed up and become the cause of yours.”
Demba watched the lone fisherman.
He blinked slowly and Mor knew he had accepted his apology.
The smoking boat across from them continued to sway in the wake of the outboards that had puttered far away, bringing more distance between themselves and the bright-red bird that was Demba. Only three vessels remained by the stricken gaal.
Smoke blew away with the wind. The clouds started to break, as if the sun’s rays had muscled them aside. The winds died down, and the owner of the damaged gaal slumped down in his boat.
“I’m ruined.” He rubbed his hand over his balding head. Then he turned his attention to Demba and jutted out his chin. “Because of him.”
“That’s not true,” Mor shouted in defense of his friend. “Demba would never do anything to hurt anyone. Tell them, Demba.” Mor looked back. But he could tell by the set of Demba’s shoulders and how he held his head high that he was not going to say a word in his own defense.
Even though some of the other fishermen did not seem to want to listen, Mor thought Demba should at least try to convince them they were wrong.
Mor noted that the remaining fishing vessels gave Demba’s boat a wide berth. The bows of their gaals were painted with the owners’ names, or the words “Allah’s Blessing ” in Arabic, French, or Wolof. Mor could not understand how untrusting of Allah they all were at that moment, believing instead that the work of menacing spirits was afoot.
“We need to cast them out,” someone urged. “Or they will do us all harm.”
One fisherman in a knit cap pulled hard on the string of his motor. “If you’re to do that, it will be without me,” he said. “I want no part in this. They are fishermen just like us. If he has powers, why doesn’t his hull spill over with fish?” The eyes of the fisherman and his crew stayed fixed on Demba as they motored away.
An older man with a sothiou dangling from his mouth cupped his hands and shouted, “Souleymane, come in our boat. Fish with us before the morning is over.”
“I cannot leave my vessel. It is all my family has.”
“What good is it for any of you if you sit out here in the baking sun when there are fish to be caught?”
The men in the other boat chattered among themselves like birds on wires. Mor couldn’t hear their words, but it was clear a few of them wanted to stay and help him, while it was obvious by others’ gestures that they wanted to get out and collect a morning’s worth of fish.
The fisherman pulled the motor string and revved the engine. “We cannot waste petrol bringing you in now. Come with us.”
Souleymane shook his head. He watched the last of his men climb into the other fisherman’s gaal.
The words “You stubborn ox” were carried on the water as the last gaal fled.
Souleymane’s boat tilted back and forth. The lip of each side kissed the waves. Birds fluttered nearby, signaling the location of a school of fish. But Demba did not steer his boat away.
He and Mor kept their distance from Souleymane, watching and waiting.
Before the sun’s midmorning heat strangled the air, Souleymane looked around, desperate. He glanced at Mor and Demba, sitting off in the distance. Mor was sure a blend of pride, embarrassment, and stubbornness tied by fear kept him from asking for their help. The hum of the other motors had long since been cut off in the distance. Frustrated, Souleymane kicked his engine with his sandaled foot and then leaped back, holding his toe.
“Why do all fishermen think banging an engine is the way to fix it?” Mor grinned for the first time all morning. He jumped into the water, no longer afraid of the waves, and swam with Demba’s wrench in his mouth before Demba could react. Mor’s head did not break the surface until he emerged at the bow of the fire-scorched gaal. He swam as if he’d been swimming his whole life out in the middle of the sea.
“I am done.” Souleymane’s head drooped between his hands. “My fishing day is over even before it has begun.” He wallowed. “I’ve no fish in my hull, no money in my pocket, and no food in my children’s bowls. How will I ever pay for a new engine?” He shook his head, then catapulted backward when Mor grabbed hold of the boat’s edge.
Mor pulled the wrench from his mouth and tossed it into the boat. Then he grabbed hold of the side of the gaal and swung himself inside.
“Stay away from me.” Souleymane scooted away from Mor. “You and that crazy Demba have done this to me.”
“Sir, we did nothing. Please let me try and help.” Mor wiped beads of salt water from his face.
“What can you do that all those men could not?” He opened his arms wide toward the fishermen in the scattered boats.
“They did not spare the time to try,” Mor said.
“You have a lot to learn of these seas,” Souleymane retorted. “If they don’t bring fish back, there will be someone else ready to sell to their usual buyers. They will come back for me.”
“So you will sit here sizzling instead of letting me help you?”
“If you say you do not hav
e the power to destroy my engine, then how will you, a little boy, have the power to repair it?”
“It is not power. My baay taught me.” Mor moved toward the distraught man. “I might be able to fix it.”
“Fix it? It cannot be fixed.”
“My baay said anything can be fixed with time and tools.” Mor grinned, thinking of his father’s words. He picked up Demba’s wrench from the hull and held it at his side. “Please let me try.”
The fisherman finally gestured toward the sagging engine.
Mor dried his hands on an old rag in the boat, then unlatched the hooks securing the cracked hood and sat back on his heels. He examined the wires and plugs inside. The motor was different from Demba’s and any other he had seen, but he did not let on.
Follow the wires, my son. His father’s words were a welcome guide. Like any well-trodden path, they will lead you where you need to go.
Mor did as his father advised. Going to work on the engine, he peeled away the melted plastic so he could get to the wires. He traced the meandering trails of yellow, blue, and red, concentrating hard. Then his face broke into a smile. He recognized the spark plugs.
Some of the wires were badly singed, and it took a while to peel back the casings. The smoldering Senegalese sun beat down on his head and back as he hunkered over the engine, but he ignored the heat. Instead, he concentrated on the skills his baay had taught him.
When he finished twisting and reattaching the wires, he peeked over the side of the boat at the back of the charred engine.
“Do you have a sturdy piece of wire?” Mor squinted as the sun shimmered off the surface of the water.
“What I have is what you see.” Souleymane swept his open palms around his empty hull.
Mor’s gaze landed on the netting, which would do him no good, then on the teakettle in the corner. It was secured much like Demba’s, with a long, wound piece of thick wire.
“Demba, kai fii,” Mor called, motioning for Demba to bring his boat closer.
Souleymane jumped to his feet, almost falling over. “Why are you beckoning him? I don’t want him near my boat.”
One Shadow on the Wall Page 18