“But what if he can help?” Mor asked.
“Doff Demba? What can he do for me?” Souleymane scoffed. “He brings trouble wherever he goes.”
Demba’s words came back to Mor.
“I’m sometimes scared of things that are different too, but I would never understand them if I did not try.” He thought about the first time he heard Demba’s words and how they were like a knot to him, or a language he could not unscramble. “Demba has waited by you when no other fisherman has. Even when you blame him, he is here to help. He is my friend.”
Souleymane went silent. Mor could tell he was deciding among trusting him, staying stranded until the other fishermen returned, or paddling back to shore with his hands as the sun rose higher in the sky.
“Very well.” He threw up his arms.
Demba revved his engine and guided his gaal through the water, pulling even with the other vessel. The little bird that had been fluttering around him all morning was nestled in his dreadlocks. The fisherman clutched the far side of the boat. Mor thought he might fling himself into the water if Demba got any closer.
Mor took a step away from the engine and dived back into the ocean himself. His body cooled instantly when the water wrapped around his skin.
“Where are you going?” Souleymane’s voice shook. He leaned over the side of the boat, talking to Mor, but his attention was on Demba.
Mor bobbed near the engine. “This burned wood is barely holding the engine up. I’m going to try and hold it in place with this wire while you both lift it back up.”
“What? You want him in my boat?” Souleymane shook his head like a wobbling top and rubbed his hands over each other. “I can do it myself.”
Mor looked between his friend and the fisherman. “It’s heavy. Let Demba help you.”
Demba rose and Souleymane stared. He opened his mouth, about to protest, but Demba was already getting into his gaal. The little bird hopped from one lock of Demba’s hair to another like they were tree branches.
Souleymane blinked rapidly. Sweat beads clung to his eyelashes. He took a timid half step forward and then another until he was at one side of the engine. Demba’s long, slender fingers, with lines resembling burrowed tunnels in his black skin, reached for the engine as well.
“Benna . . . ñaar . . . ñett . . . ,” Mor counted, and dived underwater.
His cheeks puffed out as if a thousand grains of sand were crammed into his mouth. When Demba and Souleymane lifted the outboard motor, he inspected the back of the gaal to make sure it had not been charred too badly and that the engine would not speed away and sink once Souleymane started it. He emerged from the sea, saltwater droplets tumbling over his eyes. He fastened wire around the tiller and the base of the engine for extra security, leaving a little slack so the tiller could still move. Then he took in a huge gulp of air, went back under, and tapped the side of the boat, signaling for them to ease the propeller back into the water. He jostled the engine back and forth to make sure it was secure.
“All done,” he said, panting, after breaking through the surface of the water.
Souleymane’s face held a blank stare. “It looks no different than it did before.” He was sweaty and the skin of his forehead lay in tight folds.
“Try it.” Mor swam away from the motor and held the side of Demba’s boat. “Twist the handle.”
“This will never work,” Souleymane said as he rotated the ignition handle. A faint breath of smoke coughed from the engine, but it didn’t start.
“Try again,” Mor encouraged.
On the second try the motor rumbled and sputtered, singing an erratic but present hum. Then it puttered but didn’t stop. Water churned under the boat. “Alhamdoulilah, thanks be to God.” Souleymane motioned upward.
Once Demba had climbed back into his own gaal, he helped Mor in as well.
Souleymane turned to Mor, holding out Demba’s wrench. “Why are you not hanging around the motor shops?”
Mor thought about how his baay used to hoist him up to peer down into the truck engines. Although he loved fishing with Demba, his fingers seemed so much more at home tinkering with wires and tools rather than nets and scaly fish. “They think I am too young.”
“Well, they are ignorant, as I have been.” Souleymane patted his brow with the oil-stained cloth Mor had used. He grinned, shaking his head. “I’ve been a stubborn yëkk.” While he spoke, Mor envisioned him as a feisty bull in a busy roadway, blocking traffic.
Mor smiled. “It will still need repair, but it’ll last for today.”
Souleymane waved his hand at the air. “I need to repay you,” he added. “Both of you.”
“Juróom,” Demba said, his attention on the water.
“Can’t he bring us more? The more fish we have, the more money we can make.”
“Juróom,” Demba said again.
“But—”
“Juróom.” Demba’s mind was made up.
“Just five fish, sir,” Mor grumbled. He wanted to agree with Demba, but unlike him, he could use more fish. After all he had lost, he needed to find ways to get more money for Amina’s school fees. But like Demba, he was beginning to understand that he should not take just because he could. He wasn’t a Danka Boy. He sighed. “You can bring them to Amadou’s. Demba always finishes his day there.” He brushed the dripping water off his face with a corner of his damp T-shirt. “That will be thanks enough.”
“Only five? Why so few?” Souleymane showed a smile full of crooked teeth, one of which was capped in shining sliver.
Mor glanced Demba’s way, but his friend made no outward gestures, and Mor took this to mean that his part in the conversation was done. “He only takes what he needs.” Mor held the last words longer than he needed to. He glanced at Demba, but his expression hadn’t changed. Mor was struck at how he was beginning to understand Demba’s nonverbal language, as if the movement of Demba’s hands, eyes, body, and dreadlocks were writing his meanings in the sky.
THE rest of the day on the water was perhaps their best yet, and with a hull loaded with buckets full of fish, Mor dared to smile. Souleymane repaid them, and Mor feasted on an entire fried fish by himself with bread and frittes. Before working with Demba on the water, Mor and his family would have been lucky to have fresh fish a few times a month. They usually had small smoked ones with their millet and leaf sauces. Now he was eating french fries and an entire bonga fish on his own. Of the five fish Demba had asked Souleymane to bring, two were left, and Demba gave those to Mor, insisting he bring them home to his sisters after he sold the remaining bonga fish they had caught to Basmah. Although he had lost all the money his family had a few weeks ago, fishing was slowly starting to replace it. With each day out on the water a few more francs were added to their tomato can.
But now for every few coins he received from Demba, only one went into the can, while the others went into a hole Mor had dug near his bed mat in case the Danka Boys returned. With a little over seven weeks until their aunt’s return, he had managed to save over 1,900 francs again and still keep them fed. It was a long way away from what Amina needed, but it was a start. He had to stay optimistic.
There had also been no sign of the Danka Boys. He’d been lucky to avoid them each day and at night by staying near Tanta Coumba, but he knew his luck would probably run out soon. Cheikh’s warning had told him that.
Mor shook off these thoughts and hurried across the dirt in the market, lugging the big blue bucket.
“I’m here,” Mor said, rushing over to Basmah’s stall as water sloshed around him.
“Take a breath. I’m in no rush.” Basmah took the bucket from him. “Now tell me all about your day.”
“I can’t stay long. I have two gigantic fish for my sisters.” He lifted the newspaper that contained the fish. “Souleymane’s best catch.” Then he dropped his arms hastily, looking for Papis’s spies.
He gulped down a rush of air and went into his tale of the fishing day. When he came to the e
nd, he knew he had left little out.
“Well, you’ve had quite a full day.” Basmah placed a bulging clear plastic pouch filled with ripe sidèmes and a wedge of bread into a paper bag. Mor remembered when he used to pluck the fruit off the tree with his yaay, ready to nibble the small, orangey-reddish-brown globes before he’d even gathered a handful. “I didn’t know you could fix gaal motors. Can you fix refrigerators, too?”
Mor shrugged and grinned. “I can always try.”
“You’re full of surprises,” she chuckled, taking a few coins out of her drawstring bag to give to Mor. “The next time mine goes kaput, I’ll be calling you. Bring these sidèmes to your sisters.” She patted the bag. “They are sweeter than the oranges they picked this morning. And tuck this money somewhere safe. You and Demba have given me some fine fish to salt this week.”
Mor scanned the area. “Could you keep it for tonight? I will come for it tomorrow.” She glanced around as well before slipping it back in her bag.
“Jërëjëf,” he said, then hesitated, having an idea. He grabbed a few coins from his pocket. “Can I have two of your smaller dried fish, please?”
“My, aren’t you hungry today.” Grinning, Basmah picked two medium-size fish out of the packing crate.
“The smaller ones will do.” Mor pointed to the tiniest dried fish on the table. They looked like peanuts compared with the larger ones.
“You still have room for even these after all you’ve eaten today?”
“Maybe.” Mor lowered his eyes. He hated misleading her but knew he should keep the real reason for the fish a secret. He felt her watching him and would not meet her stare.
“I guess you are a growing boy.” Basmah packaged up the fish. “Is everything okay, my new handyman?” she asked, a note of concern in her voice. “Your face has clouded.”
Mor tried to smile, despite the anxious turn of his belly. Feeling uncomfortable under her gaze, he blurted out, “Yes, I am fine, but it’s getting late. My sisters—”
“Okay then.” Basmah waved him away.
“Thank you again for the fruit and the bread,” he said, and dashed through the market.
Mor sprinted around the corner, then stopped abruptly, peeking back around the wall. Although he was on the lookout, he wanted to make sure no one was headed his way. The Danka Boys had the ability to find whatever they searched for, and Mor hoped they’d changed their minds about searching for him. He wished more than anything that Cheikh was wrong about everything. He stuffed his earnings from Demba into his shoe, then ripped open the bag of sidèmes, and a couple of them rolled to the dirt before he could catch them. The rest he dropped into his back pockets, leaving a few in the bag. His cutoff shorts had been a grown man’s jeans, so the pockets were deep and spacious. He tore off a large piece of bread, took it from the bag, and wrapped it in the newspaper along with Souleymane’s fried fish and the remaining french fries. Grease instantly soaked through the paper. He lifted his oversize T-shirt and slid the newspaper into the band at the back of his pants, and tugged his belt cord tighter, securing it against his skin. Then he pulled his shirt back down. The bread was ridged and the fish were oily against his bare back.
Leaving the tiny dried fish, the rest of the bread, and the last of the sidèmes in the paper bag, Mor crumpled it closed and started toward home.
He shuffled two steps and felt ridiculous. He was about to remove the fish and bread, but then he thought it was better to be a little slicked with grease than to have his sisters hungry if he ran into trouble.
Every few steps he glanced over his shoulder, sure someone was following him. But no one paid him any attention. When he reached his path, his shoulders relaxed a bit, but they shouldn’t have. Papis, Diallo, and another Danka Boy he didn’t recognize strolled onto the path in front of him, blocking his way. Mor fiddled with the sides of his T-shirt, pulling it down, even though it was already below his knees.
“So, you thought I had forgotten about you?” Papis did not pause for an answer. “Or did you think I would get tired of waiting?”
Mor focused on the scar running over Papis’s eye. The first few times Mor had seen it, he’d thought it just made Papis look tougher, scarier, but now Mor saw it differently. Papis had knowingly taken the slice of a whip to protect a friend. Even though Mor stared at the healed-over gash, it was still hard to believe Papis had gotten it trying to protect someone, not because he was the cause of a fight.
“Eh, grab his bag,” Diallo said, nudging the other Danka Boy.
Papis’s hand lashed out, slapping the air to silence him. Neither of the boys reached for the bag.
Mor glanced around, wondering if Cheikh watched from a distance.
Suddenly Papis snatched the bag himself and opened it. He took out a sidème and bit at its skin, popping it in his mouth. Then he spit out the nibbled-around pit like a bullet. “This is all you have?” He shoved the bag in Mor’s face. Mor stood perfectly still. “How do you not have more fish than this?”
Mor cleared his throat. “I already ate my piece with Demba.” A wad of saliva slid down his throat. “That’s for my sisters. Can I have it back?” He held his hand out but was careful not to move too much for fear the greasy paper from the fried fish would slide down his back and out the bottom of his shorts.
“This isn’t for them,” Papis said, and smirked.
“That isn’t enough for anyone,” Diallo blurted out, looking over Papis’s shoulder.
“Shut up,” Papis snapped, sending Diallo a frosty scowl. He shoved his hand back into the bag. “You know this snack is for me.” Papis bit a chunk out of one of the dried fish, then chased it down with a corner of bread. “And when I come back”—a mash of half-chewed food was visible when he spoke—“you better have more. I want my fish if you are not joining us.”
“This is a waste, man,” the Danka Boy next to Diallo said. “I told you we should’ve grabbed him on the beach when he still had those buckets with the doff dread.”
“Nopil, Laye.”
Wait, they’d watched him and Demba? Even though he’d sensed they had, hearing it was true unsettled him even more.
“Papis was too busy with that girl selling flowers, weren’t you, Papis?” Diallo laughed, as if sharing a joke.
Papis snarled. Diallo’s smirk vanished.
Papis turned back to Mor, his expression menacing. “Your ears seem to have been filled with wax. Or you were still sleeping. . . .” Papis took a step closer to Mor. The heat of his breath hit Mor’s cheek. “But I know I told you to bring those fish to me.”
“They weren’t for you,” Mor said, standing his ground. “I need to feed my sisters. Why do you keep bothering me?”
Papis smiled. “Why not?” He stared at Mor, his smile growing. “From now on do as I say. You will not go to the market. You will come to me. Got that?” He nudged Mor in the chest, seeing if he understood. The greasy newspaper crinkled and Mor hoped it would not slip down his back. “I can be a friend or an enemy. You must choose who you wish to see. It could all go so much easier if you listen to your brother and stomp the paths with us. You would get a share.”
You are a clever player in this game. With a magician’s sleight of hand, you are outwitting your opponent. But is that enough?
This time his father’s observation did not help Mor feel better. It actually confused him further. Did his baay want him to join the Danka Boys? Or did he want him to find a better way to defeat them?
“Eh.” Papis snapped his fingers in Mor’s face, knocking his father’s words away. “Make a choice.” He dropped the head of the dried fish into his mouth. The tail rested on his lip for a split second, then disappeared.
“Look,” Diallo snorted, pointing at Mor’s thigh.
Mor glanced down.
A trail of fish grease ran down his leg like an army of ants. Mor slammed his legs together, mashing the oily trail against his inner thighs.
“Don’t stand there dampening the earth.” Papis raise
d an eyebrow. “Go find a tree to shield you.”
The other Danka Boys shook with laughter.
In the distance Fatima appeared at the door of their home. Then she raced for her brother. “You’re that mean boy. Get away from him,” she shouted, pushing through the gap between the Danka Boys’ elbows before Mor could grab her. Her hands were balled tight. Their target: Papis.
“No, Tima,” Mor said as her little fists collided against Papis’s hip.
“You ruined Mina’s book. And you hurt my brother,” she yelled. “I don’t like you.”
The Danka Boys laughed harder.
Mor rushed forward, grabbing at Fatima’s hand, worried the fish would fall out. He could imagine how angry Papis would be if he knew Mor had tried to deceive him, but he had to protect Tima.
“You better stop her before I grow tired and squash the bug that buzzes around me,” Papis warned.
Fatima’s little fists flew wildly, slipping from Mor’s grip.
Then Amina’s voice broke through the laughter. “Yamal, Tima. Yamal!” Amina barreled across the dirt. The stick she held tipped with paint dropped from her hand. She shoved past Diallo to reach for her sister, pushing against Papis’s chest. He didn’t budge. Her eyes darted to Mor, then back to Papis.
“You better get control of these two.” Papis knocked past Amina and Fatima, dropping another sidème into his mouth. “We’ll see each other again, Mor Fall.” Turning, Papis flicked his fingers above his head, and the other Danka Boys trotted behind him like obedient dogs.
“Stay away from my brother,” Fatima yelled again. Tears ran down her cheeks.
Amina’s eyes, which were rimmed with dark circles, stayed trained on Mor. “She could’ve been hurt.”
Fatima’s tiny fists were still clenched at her sides.
Mor stood very still. Again. There would be no more breaks. And no certainty of when the Danka Boys would come. They were like worm lizards slithering out of burrowed holes whenever it suited them.
“Mor.” Amina elbowed him. “Did you hear me? She could have been hurt.”
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