One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  “How can you say that after the cut I took for you?” He thrust his finger at the split but healed-over skin around his eye.

  “I will never forget it,” Cheikh said flatly. “But he is not one of us. You’ve taken his fish. It’s done.”

  “I will say when I’m done, not you.” Papis was inches away from Cheikh’s face. “And I am not.”

  Mor recognized the threat for what it was, and knew he had to do something before it was too late. Part of him wanted to go back to Amina to protect her, and part of him wanted to charge after them for the worry they had caused her. His feet turned left and right on the path like the beetle he’d pestered so many weeks before.

  Your predator is ready to strike; have you assembled your shields? Do you trust that you can defend your castle?

  Mor didn’t care anymore if he was ready or not. Amina was sick and it was partly their fault. He torpedoed out of the shadow and straight for Papis, arms raised. “Aghhhhhh,” he screamed.

  At first Papis and Cheikh were startled to see a blur of fists and legs coming at them, but after Mor landed his first blow to Papis’s stomach, Papis’s fist sent him to the ground. Mor jumped back to his feet, lunging for Papis again.

  Papis shoved him down like he was a piece of paper in the wind.

  “Aww,” Papis chuckled, crouching down, his hand around Mor’s throat. “It looks like the worm has come to save us the trouble of finding his hole.”

  “Leave my family alone!” Mor swung his arms wildly, but Papis easily dodged each of his punches.

  Papis laughed at his efforts.

  “Come on, man. Let’s just go.” Cheikh glanced around as he tugged on his friend. But Papis yanked his shoulder forward, freeing himself.

  “No.” Papis smiled, releasing Mor’s throat. Mor was relieved he hadn’t squeezed. “The badola has come to fight. So fight we will.” He stood, mashing his sandal into Mor’s chest, grinding it against his shirt. Mor bucked and flailed, trying to get up. He swatted at Papis’s leg, but Papis was too strong.

  “Get off of me,” Mor yelled. “My family has nothing for you. You are a coward for always coming after me. Someone tough does not charge for someone small.”

  “Ah, so you admit you are nothing but a liir.”

  “You are the baby. But you think I won’t fight back? I will.” Mor tried to pry Papis’s foot off his chest with his hands. “You’ve hurt my sister.” Tears mixed with snot as it trailed into his open mouth. He clawed at Papis’s leg, while Cheikh yanked at Papis from behind.

  Papis scooped up a handful of dirt, letting it fall into Mor’s face and open mouth. “Shut up. I’m getting tired of your yapping.”

  Mor spit and hacked.

  “That’s enough,” Cheikh demanded, his voice low and firm. Suddenly the pressure of Papis’s foot was off Mor’s chest. He rolled to his side, gasping.

  “Stay down!” Papis kicked him one last time as Cheikh dragged him back. “Let me go!” Papis twisted in Cheikh’s arms, knocking Cheikh back.

  Cheikh stumbled in the dirt. But he met Papis eye to eye. “Enough.”

  Papis paused for a moment, staring at Cheikh. Then he hitched up his pants. “Aww, come on. I was just having a little fun with the khale.”

  “I mean it,” Cheikh said. “I will go, and I won’t come back.”

  “You will not leave me. Where will you go?” Papis said. “To your mother? To him?” He pointed to Mor, still crumpled in the sand. “They were not there for you when you were sent away. I was. Only me.” Papis jabbed at his own chest. “They will not make sure you aren’t sent back.”

  “Enough” was all Cheikh said again before he headed down the path away from Mor, Papis staring after him. Cheikh glanced back as Mor got to his feet. “Go home. There is nothing more for you to do here.”

  Mor batted at the dirt and tears mingling on his cheeks as he watched the Danka Boys walk away.

  THE night after Amina fell ill was sleepless for everyone, including Jeeg, who could normally snore through anything. They each watched every twitch Amina made, thinking it was a sign of something: She was getting better; she was getting worse; she needed another cloth under her head; she didn’t want a cloth at all. Tanta Coumba and Naza stayed at her bedside, wiping the sweat from her forehead and neck every few hours. They fed her small sips of the broth Demba had made whenever her eyes fluttered under her eyelids. They did not open, but her lips would part a little, taking in the warm liquid. Mor watched as it traveled down her throat, hoping it would instantly make her better.

  Tanta Coumba had thought it best for Fatima to stay at her barak with Oumy and baby Zal, but Mor had refused to be away any longer.

  “I have to be with Amina,” he had said, and Tanta Coumba had not demanded that he go.

  Throughout the day and the next night Amina twisted, mumbled, and moaned. Mor worried it was a song for the dead. She reminded him so much of their mother that he often had to look away or run outside for a moment of air.

  Their yaay appeared throughout the day, each time a bit dimmer, a bit less sparkly, as if her spirit were not strong enough to stay for every moment. When she wasn’t there, Mor paced and waited on Amina as best he could, which meant being faster than Naza to bring the kettle, or racing to Tanta Coumba’s house to fetch something she needed for Amina.

  He wanted to help his sister. He felt that so much of the blame for her fever was his. If he had not badgered her and their bàjjan to stay, she might have been well in the city. Her worry here had become a sickness. They did not have enough money, and he could never seem to defeat the Danka Boys. And even if he did, he imagined they might be like a headless snake that still bit.

  There was no escaping them.

  “Sit still, child. Sit,” Tanta Coumba said to him hours later. “Weaving a path in the floor does no one any good. Why don’t you go over and rest at my house, or go and sit by the sea. Fresh air will do you good.”

  “I can’t leave her,” Mor said again. He feared that if he took his eyes off her for more than a moment, she would somehow not be there when he returned.

  “Very well,” Tanta Coumba sighed, turning back to Amina.

  When Demba or Yaay’s spirit was there, Mor didn’t feel as hopeless. Demba brought in the smell of the sea and medicine, and Mor’s mother a calm. Resting her daughter’s head in her lap when Amina thrashed across the bed the most, Yaay would stroke her fingers against her daughter’s cheek, Amina’s muscles would relax, and she’d fall back into a deep sleep.

  “A waterfall of sleep, wet with strength,” Demba said as he stepped into the barak on the third morning. “Strength splashes will; will stretches us awake.”

  “Do you think she will wake today?” Mor asked, hopeful.

  “Dews of golden morning alit her palm.”

  Demba smiled, Mor thought. Demba never smiles. Then Mor spun around, following Demba’s gaze. “Mina!” He rushed to the bed, where his sister looked around, her hand outstretched, catching a beam of sunlight coming through the window where their yaay had been. Her forehead crinkled, beaded with sweat. “You’re awake. I knew you would. I knew you wouldn’t leave me.” He hugged his sister close and she hugged back.

  “Alhamdoulilah! It is so nice to see you back with us.” Tanta Coumba dabbed at the sweat on Amina’s forehead. “Your brother has not left your side. He is a good caameñ.” Tanta Coumba rubbed Mor’s back. “He has been so worried. As have all of us. How are you feeling, child?”

  Amina tried to swallow, but they could tell it was difficult for her. Naza reached the pitcher and cup before Mor could get off bended knee. She handed the cup to him, so he could help Amina. He sat on the edge of the bed where his mother had sat and helped tilt Amina’s head so she could drink.

  He was so relieved. His sister was still with him.

  When the light of morning crept in their door the day after Amina woke, and baby chicks pip-pip-pipped in their neighbor’s yard, Demba filled the doorway. Crinkles formed at the corner
s of his eyes as he watched Amina laughing, busy listening to Naza whisper about news down at the well. He stepped inside, nodded, and held out a small covered pot to Tanta Coumba. She dipped her head slightly as if she already understood.

  “Get me some of that steaming water so we can wash her down with these herbs.” She waved her hand toward the pot outside on the fire.

  Naza scurried off the pallet. She was faster than Mor every time.

  “Breeze of butterflies.” Demba turned to leave.

  “Give me those sheets I have brought from my house.” Tanta Coumba pointed at a folded pile in front of Mor.

  Mor passed them to her, then he raced after Demba.

  “Wait,” he called as Demba trotted down the path, his weaverbird swooping in, circling his head.

  Demba slowed as Mor caught up to him. “Sweet waves curl from you,” he said, then stopped. “Freedom cycles joy. Your day, an open gate.”

  “But I want to go on the water with you,” Mor said, crestfallen. “Amina is busy with Naza. She brings her laughter. And that is what she needs.” He dropped his head a little. “Naza is better at it right now than me. I’m the one who’s brought her so much worry. Made her sick.”

  Demba shook his head. “Petals blossom under rock and sun. Beams of sun are you.”

  He nodded at Mor and continued toward the beach. Mor watched him go. “Jërëjëf for making her better,” he called after him.

  When Mor slumped back to his barak, Tanta Coumba and Naza were busy adding Demba’s herbs to a pot of water to help Amina bathe. Even though her eyes were open and her strength was coming back, they wanted her to rest.

  “Go breathe the fresh air. Your eyes were the first Amina saw when she woke. She knows you are here for her. Now go do something for you,” Tanta Coumba said to Mor. “You have too much energy to stay cooped up among us women.” She drew the cover over the door closed.

  Mor didn’t have a chance to protest.

  He stepped back from the doorway, a little hurt, but understood Amina needed her rest. He was just happy she had not died. He stood, staring at his home and his freshly swept yard, and wondered what things would have been like if Amina hadn’t been okay. But as soon as the thought formed, he shook it out of his mind. Amina was going to get strong again. He knew it.

  He was about to turn away from his door when his eyes settled on a bicycle propped up at the side of his barak. The same wobbly old bike he’d seen at Demba’s the day Amina got sick.

  Freedom cycles joy. Your day, an open gate. He remembered Demba’s words, taking in every inch of the bike. More rust than paint covered it, but Mor didn’t care. He glanced behind him, hoping to see Demba, but he knew he was already gone. Mor bolted for the bike, with its curved handlebar and wide, chestnut-colored seat, a gaping rip splitting its center, exposing yellowed foam.

  He grabbed the handgrips, rolling the bike back and forth across the dirt. The bent front wheel had been replaced, and a slightly dented yellow bell had been fastened on the bar. A stick at the back held a triangular cloth that flapped against the air. Green, yellow, and red bands sewn together, with a green star drawn in the middle. His country’s flag.

  Mor wanted to rush inside and show Amina but wasn’t sure if she was already bathing.

  “Demba brought me a bike,” he yelled at the tarp.

  “Ah, so you’ve found it,” Tanta Coumba called. “He left it while you slept by your sister’s side. Now go pedal off and tell me how the wheels work.” Tanta Coumba poked her head around the door cover, smiling. “And don’t come back until your legs wobble like the sea.” She flicked her hand through the air, shooing him away. “Be careful,” she pleaded before tucking back inside the barak.

  Mor rushed back to the bike and pushed his foot against the pedal, climbing onto the seat as he always watched Demba do when there were no buckets of fish weighing him down. The bike didn’t teeter. Demba had been letting him practice on their long journeys back from outside the village, and now Mor knew why. Demba had held the back of his bike for Mor, giving him lessons. It had become one of Mor’s favorite parts of their trips, pedaling around with Demba jogging after him, watching. But this bike was even better than Demba’s. Mor could touch the pedals and sit on the seat.

  Now he could ride on his own.

  The wheels spun across the dirt as he rode away from his home, down the path leading to the beach, and hopefully Demba’s gaal, to thank him. As he rode, loose pebbles took all his concentration so he wouldn’t fall, but by the time he reached the beach, his heart had stopped racing every time one found his wheel. When he got there, though, the beach was deserted. All the fishing boats were gone, including Demba’s. The water was sprinkled with vibrant-colored gaals and dark-skinned men. Pushing off again, Mor pedaled away from the beach and the market area in search of his friends.

  When he rolled up to the clearing where he often played soccer, he saw his friends Oumar and Tapha and another boy sitting under a tree. A cageful of birds rustled at the feet of the boy Mor didn’t know. He used to know everyone who came to play.

  “Hey,” Mor said, bringing his bike to a stop in front of them. “You want to play le foot?”

  “Where’d you get that?” Oumar said, staring at Mor’s rusted bicycle. He tossed his makeshift ball between his hands.

  “From Demba.” Mor grinned. He wanted to ring the bell but didn’t.

  “I don’t know why you’re so happy,” Oumar said. “It looks like a piece of junk to me.”

  “Yeah,” Tapha said, “like he found it in a rubbish heap.”

  Their words hurt.

  “It’s not so bad,” the new boy added before Mor could defend his bike. “I’d take one.”

  Mor smiled at him.

  “Can I try it?” the boy asked.

  “Sure,” Mor said. “Just be careful.”

  Oumar smirked. “Like it matters.” Then he cupped his hands, calling after the boy who rode it away, “It’s a pile of junk, Alassane. Beware it doesn’t fall apart as you ride.”

  Mor couldn’t understand why Oumar was being so cold.

  “Why are you here, anyway?” Oumar continued. “You never have time for us anymore. You are always rushing off to your sisters or that doff Demba.” His eyes followed Alassane on Mor’s bike.

  “Don’t call him that,” Mor demanded.

  “That’s his name.” Oumar and Tapha laughed.

  But before Mor could say another word in Demba’s defense, they heard a scream.

  Mor whipped around, expecting to see the little boy in the dirt, his bike on top of him, but instead Alassane was being yanked off the bike.

  It was the Danka Boys. Papis held on to the handlebar as Alassane scrambled across the dirt, getting up.

  Alassane stepped sideways, gaining his balance. The Danka Boys surrounded him.

  “Give that back. It’s not mine,” Alassane said, trying to reach for Mor’s bike.

  Mor was shocked by Alassane’s courage, or his stupidity. It was hard to tell. Or maybe he hadn’t met the Danka Boys before. A glimpse of that first day on the beach sprang into Mor’s thoughts. Maybe if he hadn’t been there, Papis wouldn’t be bothering him now.

  Diallo pushed Alassane to the ground again, as Laye, Abou, and Cheikh came up beside Papis.

  “I’m just going to take it for a little spin,” Papis said, climbing on. “Our kharit won’t mind.” The word “friend” took a long time coming off his tongue. His eyes flashed to Mor.

  How had he known whose bike it was? Cheikh had said Papis had spying eyes and ears all over Lat Mata, and he believed him.

  “Don’t worry, he is a good kharit to me. We shared a laugh just the other night.” Alassane’s eyes zipped to Mor, scared, then back to Papis, who straddled the seat.

  Papis took off down the path, and it wasn’t long before a sandy-colored dog darted across the dirt after him, barking at his heels as he pedaled. The dog kept in step with the bike, at times jumping on its hind legs, as Papis rode away
.

  Mor wasn’t sure if he’d ever see his new bike again. He stared back at Cheikh, who met his gaze. Mor thought he saw him shrug, but then Papis was back, slowing the bike with his foot, since it had no brakes. A dust cloud and the dog trailed along beside him. The dog’s pink tongue hung from its mouth. A rope tied around its neck had a small tag hanging from it, made from the aluminum of a soda can folded around an oval of cardboard. Painted on the front were the words LOKHO NDEYDIOR DANKA DOG.

  “So, you’ve brought me a bike,” Papis said. “How thoughtful of you.” He held the bike out, looking it over. “It won’t get noticed in a junk heap, but I think I’ll keep it.”

  “That’s mine.” Mor clinched his jaw. “You can’t have it.” He went to lunge for the handlebar, but a tight grip held him back.

  It was Cheikh. He grabbed Mor like he had Papis a few nights before. Mor yanked his arm free.

  “Let go. I want my bike back.”

  “Uh-uh,” Papis warned, wagging a finger in Mor’s face. “It’s mine, not yours. You want me to have it, remember?”

  “No I don’t,” Mor said. He pulled on the handlebar. Papis didn’t loosen his grip. Neither did Mor. “It belongs to me. It was a gift.”

  “Some gift,” Papis chuckled.

  Mor looked around him for help, though he knew he wasn’t going to get it from Oumar and Tapha, who stared, mouths wide. Or from Alassane, because he was still being strong-armed by Diallo. Cheikh did not even bother glancing his way a second time.

  Mor tugged the handlebar again. This time Lokho snarled and growled, baring the tip of a sharpened tooth. Mor pulled his hand back quick as Papis smirked.

  “Why do you make your life so hard?” Papis asked Mor. “It doesn’t have to be. You could have the peace you’re looking for. We can always use someone tough.”

  He is a chameleon, changing his guise. Do not be fooled by his sugar. Though his words weave sense, they are really coils to ensnare you. Be stronger than him, my son.

  Mor wanted to listen to his father, and believed his words to be true, but he thought of Amina and Fatima and of how tired he was: tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of worry. He just wanted it all to be over.