One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  “But she wasn’t.” Mor blinked, knowing that wasn’t what Amina wanted to hear, but it was all he could think to say. “I’m sorry.” He looked around the path, surprised only a few children had come to their doorways to see what the commotion was.

  Amina sulked, holding Fatima close to her as Mor turned for home. He felt her eyes locked on his back. When he and his sisters went inside their home, their shadows danced on the walls behind the light of the oil lantern. Amina didn’t stop to take a breath as Mor stepped over a pile of rocks, sharpened sticks, and two bottle caps of paint.

  “I think we should tell Tanta Coumba.”

  “We can’t,” Mor said. He thought of Cheikh and the other Danka Boys. “It would bring more trouble. There are too many of them. They seem to multiply each day. If it’s not one, it’ll be another. We have to find a different way. She might tell our bàjjan to come get us.”

  “First he took our money, then our breakfast and lunch. And now he has taken our dinner, too, and still he wants more. He will not stop. What did you do to make him act this way?” Amina’s voice filled the space.

  “Why do you think I’m the cause?” Mor was hurt. “Maybe I’m just unlucky.”

  “Maybe you are,” she said under her breath. “But now so are Tima and me.” She sat on the floor by a pile of rocks with painted faces.

  Mor wanted to ask about them, but he didn’t. “Don’t worry,” he said, lowering his voice as if Papis could hear. “He hasn’t gotten our dinner today.” Despite everything, a small grin lifted the edges of his lips.

  He raised his shirt and took the grease-soaked newspaper from his back. He laid it on the floor and opened it. The bread had absorbed most of the oil from the french fries and the fish, but it still looked delicious to Fatima, whose eyes grew. Even Amina stopped her shouting long enough to watch Fatima kneel before the food. They hadn’t had french fries in a long, long time.

  Amina stared at the food.

  “You tricked them, you tricked them.” Fatima bounced on her knees. “You fooled those bad boys.” She pulled one of the smushed fries from the others. “Mmmm.”

  Mor could see the anger softening in Amina’s eyes.

  “Come on, Mina.” Fatima pulled on her sister’s arm, chomping on the french fry. “Mor brought frittes.”

  Fatima fed Jeeg a fry.

  “Clever trick,” Amina said with a smirk, pulling off a piece of the grease-soaked bread.

  Mor started to sit, then sprang up, rolling onto his side.

  Amina lifted the newspaper before he smashed the food.

  “I almost forgot,” he said, pulling the sidèmes from his back pockets.

  Amina actually laughed first. Though in the back of his mind Mor couldn’t help but think of the Danka Boys.

  BUT I can do it,” Mor said several days later when he and Demba returned from their bike ride. Demba was insisting that Mor go home early, but Mor knew it wasn’t right not to finish his job. “I always go. I’ll see my sisters after.”

  Mor wasn’t sure if he’d run into the Danka Boys, but he didn’t want Demba to have to either. They were his problem, and they were expecting their fish. He just hadn’t figured out how he’d handle it.

  Demba held the bucket of fish for Basmah at his side. Mor went to reach for it and Demba did not pull away.

  “Hours are uncertain. And days hold no promises.”

  Mor let his hand fall. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Demba was talking about not having enough time with Idrissa. Mor had nothing else to say.

  He slunk away, glancing back, wanting to warn Demba to look out for the Danka Boys, but he didn’t. Watching Demba go, he tried to reassure himself that the Danka Boys would never cross him.

  His aunt’s return was almost six weeks away, and he’d been so busy trying to get the coins he and his sisters needed to show her they could build a life on their own that they hadn’t had much time together. And as the summer days ticked by, Mor agreed with Demba: Days didn’t hold any promises, and he wanted to make sure he and his sisters spent as much time as they could as a family, in case there were not many chances left.

  When he got back to his sisters, the salt-touched air in the barak felt light. Amina sang under her breath while Fatima talked to her rock dolls. Cut fabric lay on the floor in piles.

  “Let’s go to the market and get a papaya. I have a taste for a juicy papaya, don’t you?” He tickled Fatima until she squirmed. “Tomorrow is Friday, let’s start my time to relax early.”

  “Really? I want one.” Fatima dropped the piece of cloth she held and jumped to her feet, pulling Jeeg. “You can have some too,” she said into her ear.

  Mor went over to the sleeping mats and pulled them from the corner. Dug out low in the wall was a sliver of a hole. Squirreling his fingers inside, he yanked out a plain brown pouch that blended with the dirt floor. He sat cross-legged, with his back to his sisters, and poured all the coins onto the floor in front of him. Every day he did the same thing when he returned home with new coins in his pocket; he counted them up—2,560 francs in all. He still had a ways to go before he reached the 9,200 francs Amina needed, plus what they required for food. But he refused to give up, even though it all seemed impossible. And he wouldn’t stop trying, not even on the day their bàjjan returned.

  “What are you doing?” Fatima peeked over his shoulder.

  “Nothing, Tima.” He scooped the coins back into the pouch and added the 300 francs he’d just received from Demba to the rest.

  “We won’t have any money in that ditch if you keep spending it on such luxuries.” Amina coughed. She did not look up from the fabric she was cutting when Mor turned around after placing the mats back in front of his hiding place. A tiny piece of crinkled paper that was once a candy bar wrapper rested near her knee. It had a list written in Amina’s careful hand.

  barak-brown and yellow

  yellow, red, blue-brown

  grass-green

  yellow and blue-green

  goats-white

  red and white-pink

  people-brown and pink

  yellow and red-orange

  sky and sea-blue

  flowers-every color

  When she noticed Mor staring at it, she carefully folded it over. The logo for a chocolate bar, one Mor was sure Amina had never tasted, showed. Then she slipped it into her pocket.

  “What’s that?” Mor asked.

  “Just some notes for myself. Nothing important to you.” She coughed again, pulling at a thread in the fabric she stitched. Then she looked up at her brother. “What you should be concerned with is spending our coins on a papaya.”

  “I am saving,” he said. He crawled under the pallet behind her and dragged out the Dieg Bou Diar tomato can. “And I get a little more every day. If there are fish in the sea, we will have more.” Mor smiled, dropping thirty francs into the decoy can. “Every day we get closer to getting you in that fancy green uniform.”

  Mor could tell Amina was trying not to smile at the idea, but her cheeks lifted even though she looked a little tired.

  The Danka Boys hadn’t been back inside their barak since stealing Jeeg, but Mor wasn’t willing to risk it. He rewrapped the tomato can and hid it back under the pallet. He’d learned it was better not to let his guard down, but it had been a good morning on the water, and he wanted to enjoy the rest of the day with his sisters. They’d just have to stick to the busiest paths and hope the Danka Boys had other things occupying their attention.

  “Come on, Mina. We will just get one to share,” he said, coming out of his own thoughts.

  Amina looked around at the piles of fabric cutouts all over the floor. “All right. All right,” she said, and stretched. “I guess I am done for the day.” She packed her materials in the plastic bag and followed Mor and Fatima outside.

  On the way to the market they laughed and joked about all the stories Mor had heard from the other fishermen that week on the water and the ones Amina and Fatima knew from being
at the village well. Some of the other fishermen had begun to greet Demba like a friend. And one had even had Mor check a pesky problem with his engine. Although Mor had not been completely sure how to fix it, he’d known exactly what the problem was, when the fisherman’s mechanic had not.

  “Hey. What’s so funny?” Mor jumped, then turned and saw Oumar coming up beside them. His soccer ball was tucked under one arm.

  “Hey,” Mor still laughed. “I was telling them about something Demba said.”

  “Oh, that doff fisherman.” Oumar’s smile dropped. “You’re always with him now.”

  “He’s not crazy,” Mor shot back, his smile gone as well. “He’s my friend.”

  Oumar shook his head as if he pitied Mor. “You want to go play le foot?”

  Mor hesitated for a second. He glanced at Amina and Fatima. He knew that look of disappointment on their faces all too well. “No,” he finally said. “We’re going to the market.”

  Fatima’s face instantly lit up again.

  “You’d rather do that than play?” Oumar held up his ball and looked at Mor as if he’d grown two fish heads from his neck.

  Fatima pushed closer to her brother and brushed her cheek against his arm.

  “Yep,” Mor said, and meant it. “Another time, Oumar.”

  Oumar stopped in the street, watching them go.

  Mor continued his story about Demba as they walked on, Fatima giggling the whole way. But when they got to the stall at the end of Basmah’s row, all their laughter stopped.

  “Oh no,” Mor said, sprinting across the market to Basmah’s stall. He reached her ahead of his sisters.

  A trickling of juice and seeds from squashed tomatoes and split melons dribbled over the lip of her table onto the ground. Basmah crouched down, shoveling the destroyed fruit into a plastic bag with two pieces of cardboard, while the vendor next to her stall swept up a scattering of spilled dried beans.

  Mor held open the plastic bag as she dumped the soppy chunks of food inside. Soon his sisters were close at his side to help.

  “What happened?” he asked. Though he knew he hadn’t been clever or lucky. He hadn’t escaped the Danka Boys.

  “Street boys, that’s what.” She braced her hand on the corner of her table for leverage and got up. “Those runaway talibés are getting more and more out of hand. They ignore their serigne’s teachings and become reckless and a danger.” She patted Mor on the shoulder after he tied the stuffed bag closed. “Why can’t every child be more like you and your sisters?”

  He and Amina flung each other looks of worry. He tried to smile, but a sickening feeling lodged inside him. He and his sisters continued to clear away the damaged fruits and vegetables as Basmah spoke.

  “One minute they are little boys running around with tomato cans, asking for bits of food and donations for their daaras, then the next a few bad seeds have sprouted and are robbing me of all my fish.” She fanned herself with her hand.

  “They took all of them?” Mor surveyed the mess. He hoped it was a bad coincidence her stall had been rifled only days after Papis’s warning, but he didn’t think so. “Did they take anything from anyone else?” He nodded toward the vendor still picking up handfuls of beans.

  “No. Sidy reached out to grab one, but the boy was too quick. He knocked Sidy’s table as they escaped.” She tilted her head at the empty spot where her salted fish had been. “They came with buckets of their own.”

  Before Basmah had even finished her sentence, Fatima tugged Mor’s arm.

  “Tell her about the mean boys,” she said, cupping her hands around her mouth as she tried to whisper. Though her hushed words sounded louder than the howl of a jackal.

  “Shh.” Mor put his finger to his lips. “That’s our secret.”

  “Why? You should show her how you tricked them. Maybe she can put all the fish in her boubou.” Fatima giggled, probably envisioning Basmah with a tableful of fish stuffed in her dress.

  Basmah came up beside them. “Don’t have such a long face. It will not happen again,” she said with a confidence Mor wished he shared. “There are only a few of them against all of us.” She swept her arms around her, and the vendors near her nodded, as if hanging on her every word. “They caught me asleep once, but they never will again. Besides, you will bring me more fish to stock my table tomorrow. Incha’Allah.”

  “But—” Mor began.

  “But nothing.” Basmah took the undamaged oranges Amina held out to her and placed them with the other salvaged fruit on her table. She scooped up a handful of sidèmes and gave them to Fatima.

  Fatima bit into a plump one. “Thank you,” she managed between bites. “It is so sweet. Even better than the ones Mor stuffed in his pockets.” She offered Mor one.

  “Pockets?” Basmah searched Mor’s face. “I gave you a perfectly good bag.”

  “He almost sat on them too,” Fatima laughed, her mouth crammed with two more.

  Basmah looked between Mor and his sisters, confused. Mor wished Fatima would shovel all the sidèmes into her mouth.

  “That’s enough, Tima.” Amina stepped toward their sister. “Save some for when we get home.”

  “But what if those boys come back and take them?” Fatima asked, shoving another one into her mouth, spitting the little pit on the ground. “I want to finish them now.”

  Mor rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins, offering them to Basmah.

  She glanced at them, then back at Mor.

  “For the sidèmes.” He knew she would not take the money, but he truly wished he could pay her for all her stolen fish.

  “Put your money away. It’s no good here today.” She unfolded a handkerchief she had tucked up her sleeve and wiped her forehead and under the front of her head wrap. “I think I may close for the day. I don’t have much left. Besides, my spirit is dampened.”

  Mor lowered his eyes. “We can help,” he offered, pulling one of the packing crates from under her table.

  “No, I won’t hear of it. You’ve already done enough. Go enjoy your evening. I’m sure we’ve all had a long day in the sun.”

  “But we didn’t get the papaya.” Fatima swallowed down the last of the sidèmes in her mouth.

  Mor nudged her, and Amina pulled her into her arms. Fatima twisted, pulling away. Basmah, with her back to the commotion, grabbed another crate and set it on the edge of the table. Then she took the one Mor held as well, before hugging him to her chest. He stiffened, then relaxed. She hugged like his mother. Strong and suffocating, yet warm and cozy all at once, smelling of the same jasmine-scented lotion his yaay used to buy in the market.

  “Sorry,” he whispered into the crook of her arm, the words getting caught in the folds of her dress.

  “Now go, I insist,” she said.

  When she dropped her hands, Mor moved away quickly, shielding his face. He raked the backs of his hands across his cheeks and over his eyes. There were too many tears to go unnoticed, so he pressed his shirt against his cheeks.

  “Dust,” he said. Although no one had asked.

  After his sisters had each hugged Basmah, she picked up an undamaged papaya off her table and dropped it into a bag, winking at Fatima.

  “Sorry,” Mor whispered again.

  When they left her, neither he nor Amina felt like going anywhere but home. Mor waited for Amina to say something, but she never did. She focused on the dirt as she held Fatima’s hand. He knew her silence meant she was truly worried but that she did not want to frighten Fatima.

  As they plodded home, a chain of girls with linked arms skipped down the street ahead of them. Fatima’s friend Rama was leading the march.

  “Let me go,” Fatima whined, struggling to pull loose of Amina’s hand.

  “We need to get home,” Amina answered.

  “Why? There is nothing there but you and Mor. I want to go with my friends.” With her free hand, Fatima tried to peel Amina’s fingers from around her own.

  “She’ll be fin
e, Amina.” Mor glanced around. “At least one of us should enjoy this night.” He understood Fatima’s need to play with her friends. With his days full of fishing and worrying after his sisters and Jeeg, he had not laughed freely with his own friends over a soccer ball for a while. And he missed it. He thought of how he had dismissed Oumar and felt guilty. Sometimes he wondered if all his sacrifice was worth it. He wanted to have fun too.

  “Go,” Amina said, sounding tired. Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip and hairline. “Stay near. And only for a little while. On your way home untie Jeeg from the post by Tanta Coumba’s door.”

  Fatima flitted down the street after her friends.

  Once Fatima was gone, Amina wasted no time.

  “You know it was those boys,” she said, watching Fatima run, then skip, then run, dancing with Rama in the street. “They did that to Basmah.” Her long, reedy arms hung at her sides. “You should have told her.”

  “It might not have been them.” He knew he told a lie. He shoved his hand deep in his pocket. Besides the few coins he’d brought out to pay for the papaya, he felt lint and the hole that had started out the size of a pea. “We don’t know.”

  Amina stepped in front of him, halting his steps. “Your lies will not make it so. You know it was them. It is unfair not to tell her. They stole in a crowded market. They can do more.”

  Mor kicked the dirt; then he stopped, gawking past her.

  “You have nothing to say?” Amina continued, wiping her lip with the back of her hand. Then she turned, following her brother’s gaze. In the shadow of a path Diallo stood grinning next to the Danka Boy they called Laye. Amina went still as a stone, like her brother.

  The Danka Boys watched them, as lions observe their prey.

  Neither Mor nor Amina took a breath.

  When Diallo’s hand flung something from his side, they jumped and he snickered.

  A salted fish landed at their feet. “Tomorrow.” He bucked his chin toward the fish, then elbowed Laye, signaling for them to leave. They backed away, keeping an eye on Mor and Amina until the path curved and they were gone behind a woven fence.