Mor hesitated as Papis and the others stared at him.
Don’t, my son. Have the will of a lion.
But right then Mor felt more like a sheep, following behind a herd of five.
“Okay,” Mor sighed, as if finally releasing a boulder he’d spent too much time trying to push uphill. But as the word left his throat, it tasted of bile.
Papis’s lip curled up at the corner, and the eyebrow with the healed-over gash lifted. He glanced at Cheikh, who did nothing, then he let go of Mor’s handlebar. Mor caught the bike before it fell. Then Papis turned his attention toward Oumar and Tapha, who froze, but his gaze went past them, landing on the birdcage. The birds tried to flap their wings, wishing to be free.
He strode past them to the cage and unlatched it, whistling almost exactly as the pithis inside did. “Come out,” he said gentler than Mor ever thought Papis could be. Though Mor worried that at any minute Papis would pull one out and squeeze it to death, or worse, stomp on its head. However, all he did was call them out one by one, chirping to each as he flung it toward the sky to fly.
“Hey!” Tapha started to rush over, but Laye stepped in his way.
Papis cut him a look. “Nothing should be caged.”
Mor thought of Cheikh and the other Danka Boys but kept silent.
When the last pithi had flown from the cage, Papis stood. “And don’t you dare call them back,” he warned Tapha, before eyeing Oumar. “Now give me that ball.” Papis nodded to the bundle of smushed plastic bags wrapped with twine Oumar held in his hand.
Before Oumar could do anything, Laye knocked it loose, trapped it with his foot, and popped it into the air. Papis let it roll down his chest to his knees, where he juggled it off both his thighs, and then from foot to foot. Everyone watched as he moved, controlling the ball in a tight space, until it got a little ahead of him. Cheikh reached out for it with his own foot. They lobbed the ball back and forth, until Papis kicked it high and far. All the Danka Boys charged after it, including Lokho.
Mor, Oumar, Tapha, and Alassane stood watching.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Cheikh called over his shoulder. It was the first smile Mor had seen on his face in a long time. “You’re one of us now.”
Tapha and Oumar exchanged looks. Mor hesitated, then rested his bike on the tree next to the empty pithi cage. He wandered onto the field. Screams and shouts and jokes echoed around him. Light laughter, breezy and free, walled him in on all sides. It unsettled him to think that soon he would be passing the ball to boys who’d caused him so much trouble. That they would be his teammates. But he had no other choice.
The teams naturally fell into place with Papis and Cheikh on one side, and Diallo, Abou, and Laye on the other.
“Mor, you’re here.” Cheikh tapped the ball with the side of his foot, sending it to Mor like he always had when they were younger. The ball stayed cradled against Mor’s foot as if on a short string. He charged for the cement wall, rolling it against the sole of his shoe as he spun past Abou. Only Laye stood between him and the goal. But instead of kicking the ball to bend around him, a move Mor could’ve done in his sleep, he passed it to Cheikh, who was also waiting to score. The ball sailed through the air, slammed off the wall, and bounced to a stop.
“Yes!” Cheikh pumped his fist in the air.
Mor smiled, remembering the way it used to be, until Diallo started shouting.
“Naw. That wasn’t a goal. The goal is over here, not there.”
“What kind of field are you making?” Cheikh asked. “Goals aren’t in the corner.”
“Papis, man.” Diallo looked at Papis. “Come on. . . .” But as if he already knew the answer, he turned and stomped away, yelling at Laye instead for not defending the goal better.
“Eh, where are you going?” Papis asked Alassane as he walked down the side of the field, away from the game. “Get over here. And you, too,” he called to Oumar and Tapha. “Now!” he ordered when they each hesitated. “You’re our posts, now go stand like trees and do not move.”
Like tree trunks, they didn’t sway, just cupped their hands in front of them. Oumar and Tapha were on either side of Laye, while Alassane and a rock marked off Papis’s team’s goal.
Suddenly the bright-blue plastic bag wound with twine arced through the air, landing near Mor’s feet.
“Why don’t you just hand it to him?” Diallo slapped his twin on the back of his neck. “Go get in our goal. You are no use to us on the field. Laye, come up here with me.”
“Oh, shut up,” Abou yelled. “You’re no better with that stump of a foot.”
“Better than you,” Diallo shouted, trying to slide-tackle as Mor passed him, but Mor was too quick, leaping over his leg.
A group of small boys playing in the dirt at the side of a barak ran over to the field to watch.
After leaving Diallo in the dust, Mor passed to Cheikh, who lobbed it to Papis, who was clearly offside, standing by the goal. He knocked it in with his head. No one complained.
He raised his arms high, screaming, “Gooooaaaal!” Then he tugged at the front of his shirt, running around the field like a professional player after scoring at the World Cup. Mor was surprised he didn’t slide to his knees in the dirt.
They continued playing, and Papis continued cheating. Everyone ignored it until he drilled the ball at Oumar and it grazed the outside of his shoe. Papis started jumping around again, arms lifted. Mor wasn’t sure if it was the intense heat from the sun or standing still watching others play for over an hour that did it, but Oumar spoke out.
“That wasn’t a goal,” he grumbled.
“What was that?” Papis rushed him and grabbed up the front of his shirt. “What did you say?”
As if just realizing he’d opened his mouth at all, Oumar tried to take it back. “Nothing. It was nothing. Goal. You scored. Goooooaaaaallll!”
But it was too late.
Papis’s hand flew through the air and latched on to Oumar’s neck like a serpent, shoving him to his knees, then against the dirt. “No. I think maybe you need a better view. Stay down here so next time you’ll know my aim is good.” He pushed off Oumar and stood, slapping his hands together. “Let’s play.”
Mor wanted to say something or do something to help Oumar, but like Oumar had stayed silent earlier, Mor stayed silent then. He had to think of himself and his sisters. He was done crossing the Danka Boys.
Oumar dared not move as Laye and Diallo kicked dirt in his face. “You better not let another ball through!” Diallo warned. Oumar was trapped whatever he did.
As they played, Abou tripped over Oumar again and again. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes acting like he’d forgetten Oumar was even there. He squished Oumar’s hand twice and knocked into his head, laughing. “Oops.”
Oumar didn’t make a sound, but a tear rolled down his cheek.
Mor tried to ignore it and play the game he loved, but every time he dribbled toward the goal, he felt Oumar’s eyes on him, pleading. Instead of charging forward, and easily spinning the ball under his foot, circling around one of the other Danka Boys, he would pass it off to Papis or Cheikh and drop back to defend their goal.
He was miserable. Papis had even found a way to ruin his favorite sport.
Mor watched Cheikh pivot and move. Cheikh lifted the ball on the lap of his shoe and hopped it over Diallo’s lunging foot. Diallo punched the dirt when Cheikh scored, then blamed the goal on his brother. Diallo and Abou ran for each other, fighting, and Cheikh had to pull them apart. Mor was actually surprised they had lasted that long before taking a swing at each other.
There was nothing fun about this game.
“Knock it off, you two!” Papis shouted, then pointed at Mor. “You, get over there. Abou, over here. If you are going to fight, I want it for me.”
Abou smirked at his brother, who Mor could tell was envious. Diallo bucked at the air, ready for another fight.
On the first play the ball landed at Mor’s feet. He knocked
it to Laye, who was open, but Cheikh quickly blocked it. Mor raced after his old friend, watching his hips as he dribbled, certain of his fakes and remembering all his old moves. Once Cheikh had left Diallo in the dirt, Mor was able to catch up and face him. When Cheikh went left, so did Mor, swiping the ball from his foot. Mor was off again in the opposite direction. He could hear Cheikh’s laugh behind him. Not evil or bitter, but happy, like it used to be when they challenged each other and the better fake-out had won. But Mor had to push the memory to the back of his mind because after he easily slipped around Abou, it was just him, Papis, and open space.
Mor tried to tilt to the right and move to the left, but Papis followed. He pulled the ball back under the sole of his shoe, changing directions, but still Papis was locked to him. He thrust his head one way and swung his body another, but Papis was there. Like with everything else, Papis was an unrelenting opponent.
But at this Mor was better.
He slowed his dribble to a crawl, watching as Papis’s shoulders relaxed, ready at any moment to strike out his leg to try to capture the ball. But a second before Papis moved, Mor acted, knocking the ball with the outside of his foot. He dodged Papis and sent the ball sailing ahead between Alassane and the rock that marked the other goalpost.
Mor’s teammates and the little boys gathered at the side of the field cheered, teeth gleaming. Mor was about to smile as well, when Papis butted Alassane in the head.
“You are a goalpost. My goalpost. Nothing should pass you. Nothing.” He dug his finger into Alassane’s forehead and pushed him back. Alassane stumbled and fell.
Mor rushed to help him up.
“Leave him,” Papis snapped as he turned his back and walked away.
Mor quickly gave Alassane a hand up. Tears ballooned in Alassane’s eyes.
“Sorry.”
Alassane shook his head. “You better get away,” he whispered. “For both of us.”
Mor glanced over his shoulder and saw Papis scowling. From then on Mor avoided scoring a goal, like everyone else on his team.
This was life as a Danka Boy.
AFTER three more days of constant bed rest, Demba’s broth, and Tanta Coumba and Naza wrapping her in steaming-hot cloths soaked in Demba’s herbs, Amina was doing better. She even bossed Mor about.
“You’ve already lost another button? Do you think we have bags full?” she asked.
Mor smiled with relief as she fussed. She was back to her old self.
“Aren’t you late for Demba?” Amina got up and laid the book Demba had given her on the pallet. Mor also noticed she had smoothed out the balled-up Iéna Academy pamphlet and had slipped it inside like a bookmark.
“Out, out,” she teased like their yaay used to, pushing Mor toward the door. “You have fish to catch, and I have my own things to do.”
“Mina, you still need to rest, you know,” Mor started. “Tanta Coumba and Naza have taken care of everything. You don’t need to start housework again so soon. Tima and I need nothing.”
“Not everything I do is chores. Maybe there are things I want to do for myself.”
Mor thought about the wrinkled chocolate bar wrapper he’d found with all the lists on it, and about him becoming a Danka Boy. He wanted to tell her, but he knew she wouldn’t be any less worried. She actually might just get mad.
“Demba and I have sold many fish, and another fisherman asked me to look at his gaal’s motor. He said he will pay me a few francs. We still have a few weeks before Bàjjan’s return. I know I don’t have all you need for school, but I think I might be able to show her we can care for ourselves. What do you think? Would you be upset if you couldn’t start school as soon as the year begins? Maybe soon after instead? They might hold you a place with Baay’s money until then.”
“If that is the way it has to be, then that is the way it will be.” She sat on the floor and pulled out a plastic bag stuffed with what looked like mini cloth outfits. When she caught him staring, she pushed it closed behind her. “I wish we could pick coins from trees,” she said lightheartedly.
So did Mor. He wished it were that simple. He wanted to say more, but Amina looked away. Then she glanced back up at him as he stepped out the door.
“Thank you for trying. And jërëjëf for looking out for me when I was sick.”
“I didn’t do much,” Mor said, suddenly bashful. “Tanta Coumba, Naza, and Demba did everything.”
“No,” Amina said, a hint of seriousness in her voice. She held a white-faced rock doll. “You watched over me. And that is the most important.”
Before Mor realized it, she hopped off the ground and hugged him, whispering against his neck.
“Thank you for trying to help me with school. You keep the dream alive in me, like Baay did. You are a good brother. I am proud of you.” As he blinked, she released him and was back kneeling on the floor, dressing another doll, before he could find the right words to say.
When he stepped out of the barak, he didn’t think he could feel any better.
He got on his bike and steered onto the lane, passing by Tanta Coumba’s door to say his greetings and to check in on Fatima and Jeeg.
When he pulled his bike up alongside Tanta Coumba’s window, he heard Fatima’s little voice. “Let’s pile all the small, smooth ones here. Mina likes those best.”
“And we can put this on here like this,” Oumy said.
Mor peeked in the window, but Fatima’s and Oumy’s backs were to him. Jeeg popped her head up, looking at him.
“Morning, Tima,” he called through the open window.
Fatima jumped to her feet. “When can I go be with Mina?” she asked before he’d made it to the door. “She is better now.”
“Not yet, Tima. She still needs her rest.”
“But she’s fine. She’s up and doing stuff.”
“You’ll see her this afternoon when Tanta Coumba and Naza go over.”
“But she is my sister. Why can’t I see her now?” Fatima whined.
“If you want her well, you can’t.”
She plopped back down next to Oumy and Jeeg. Her bottom lip stuck out as she pouted. A pile of rock dolls lay between them.
“They are so wrapped up in their rocks,” Tanta Coumba laughed.
Mor’s shoulders lifted in surprise. He hadn’t seen her hunched in her garden at the side of the barak. Baby Zal crawled in the dirt, putting fistfuls of it into his mouth. She tapped his hand away from his lips.
“You might as well go and fulfill the day Allah has planned for you. They will be busy all morning. As you can see, they have risen almost before the roosters.”
Mor nodded, happy to see that Fatima had found something to busy herself. But a part of him felt as if he was being left out of something. He couldn’t help feeling that Amina was keeping a secret from him.
But wasn’t he keeping a secret from her, too?
“Mor brought us a chicken. Mor brought us a chicken.” The words found their way down the path to Mor’s ears even before he saw Fatima and Oumy singing and dancing around the yard in front of the barak. At first he wasn’t sure he’d heard them right. Then his focus landed on Tanta Coumba dropping chicken parts into a large black pot of sizzling oil, while Naza chopped up onions against her palm, a half-full bowl beside her feet.
Where had a chicken come from?
Mor remembered the last time they’d had one. It was on Amina’s birthday, a year before. Her teachers had given her a certificate saying she had the highest marks in the entire village school. They came to the barak to ask if she and Baay might speak with other girls and their parents at a meeting about the importance of girls getting an education. Mor remembered how proud they’d all been, but their baay especially. He’d held Amina close and whispered: “Your yaay always believed this of you.” He had hugged all of them then, saying the chicken wasn’t just to celebrate Amina’s birthday and the certificate. “It is to celebrate our family and how we’ve done it together.” Late nights with Baay going over n
umbers in the dirt, Mor testing her on spelling words when Baay was working, and Fatima helping with chores when Amina needed to study. “We’ve all done our part,” their baay had said. And now Mor watched as Amina giggled again, rinsing rice in a metal bowl filled with water.
They all looked so happy.
“Aw, Mor,” Tanta Coumba called when she looked up. “Why are you rooted to the road? Kai fii.” She called him over with her hand.
“Mor!” Fatima and Oumy rushed him, squeezing his waist tight. “You brought us a chicken,” Fatima said, her chin digging into his stomach as she smiled up at him. She and Oumy hugged him again and then skipped off laughing, still singing.
“Thank you,” Amina said. She glanced at him and continued letting rice fall through her fingers.
“Yes, jërëjëf. It is a very nice surprise. And a wonderful way to celebrate your sister’s returning health. You must be doing quite well out on that water with Demba, even though many do not have a catch every day. You are both blessed. We all are. Chicken is a rare feast for any of us,” Tanta Coumba said. “Such a thoughtful boy to invite my daughters and me to share it.”
Mor wanted to tell them they were wrong, that he hadn’t bought the chicken. But he couldn’t.
“Laye was very nice this time. Not like before,” Amina added. “I think he even tried to say sorry.”
“Laye?” Mor hoped she didn’t notice the surprise in his voice.
“Yes. Didn’t you send him?” Amina searched his face.
Mor hesitated.
“Well, it was very thoughtful,” Tanta Coumba said. Her back was to Mor and Amina as she flipped over the frying chicken. “Sending him has given us more time to prepare. This yassa will be tasty.”
Mor couldn’t believe it. Another Danka Boy had come to his home, but this time it was to give, not to take. It was going to take a while before Mor would ever be able to believe it. Even still, for him, a day like this almost made every bad day worth it.
A few days later, on his day off, the Danka Boys waited for Mor on the path.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 23