“Come on,” Papis said, draping his arm over Mor’s shoulder as if they were old friends. All the kids they passed stepped out of their way, staring as though they walked on gold. It was a strange feeling to be part of a group that every other kid watched and noticed. Each second he was with the Danka Boys, he saw more and more how they looked out for one another. In a strange way it felt nice not to be alone. Not to turn with worry whenever he heard an approaching footstep. They also understood what it was like to take care of themselves. But he still needed to get used to the fact that Papis was at the head of it.
“Where are we going?” Mor asked as they stomped down the center of the road, no one bothering them.
“We have a game,” Papis said. “You’re going to score. And score a lot. You’re not too bad with a ball, you know.”
The edge of Mor’s lip lifted.
“We’re going to put those skills of yours to use. Salif and his boys aren’t going to win today.”
“Who’s Salif?” Mor asked.
“You’ll see.” Papis patted Mor’s shoulder and strutted ahead of all the Danka Boys, Lokho prancing at his side, tail wagging.
“See?” Cheikh whispered, coming up beside Mor. “He’s not so bad.”
“I guess.” Mor shrugged. He still had a couple of healing bruises to prove otherwise.
“That’s it,” Papis shouted after the ball had sailed through the goal for the sixth time. The game was finally over after a lot of pushing, shoving, offsides, and underhanded tricks, like holding shirts and tripping, and the Danka Boys had won mainly because of Mor’s five goals. “We are the champions.” Papis held up an imaginary Africa Cup trophy, pumping his fist in the air.
Salif’s shining soccer ball, with a few black and white patches missing, spun in the dirt until Papis swooped in and snatched it off the ground without complaint from Salif, except for his flaring nostrils and a flexing jaw. Papis also grabbed the handful of money he and Salif had dropped in the dirt before the game. He slipped most of it into his pocket, then strolled over to Mor with a wide smile on his face. Mor tensed.
“Here.” Papis pushed the ball against Mor’s chest and slapped two five-hundred-franc coins into his hand. “If you do that every game,” he chortled, “I’ll be rich. Not bad, khale. Not bad.”
This time when Papis said “kid,” it didn’t sound like a slop of fish guts smeared on the bottom of his shoe. Mor was part of the group, and he had a new ball and money to prove it. Although he smiled, its brightness didn’t reach all the way down to his belly. He had always thought he would feel happier when he got his first real soccer ball.
BEFORE the chickens in a neighbor’s yard had started rustling their feathers, when the sun still only peeked in the sky, Mor pedaled down to the beach. He found Demba lying under a palm tree. His dreadlocks sheltered his face. As Mor approached, he couldn’t tell if Demba was awake or asleep. The little weaverbird hopped on and off Demba’s clasped fingers as his chest rose and fell under his hands.
As quietly as he could, Mor eased his bike onto the sand, not wanting to wake Demba if he slept. For so many days and nights he had been at Mor’s home, checking on and helping Amina. Mor was sure Demba was tired. But as soon as Mor went to sit next to his friend, Demba got up and headed toward his boat.
As Mor started to follow him, someone cleared his throat behind him. Mor turned to see Papis standing at a rock, his foot resting on it. Although he no longer flinched when he saw Papis, Mor’s good mood vanished.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, glancing back at Demba readying the boat.
“Eh,” Papis said with pretend shock. “You are a Danka now. I will always be around. And you will always have our fish when we ask, won’t you, brother?”
Mor wanted to tell him to cast his own net, but he didn’t. He just stared as Papis rubbed his sothiou across his teeth, cleaning them.
“Make sure they are big.” Papis held his hands apart.
As Mor turned away, Lokho and Diallo trotted up the path to their master, eyeing Mor as he went to Demba’s gaal.
“Remember,” Papis yelled at his back, “if I don’t get my fish, no one gets any. You hear me, khale?”
Mor gulped. This time “kid” sounded like a warning, closer to the slop of fish guts again.
“We are your brothers first.”
Mor walked like an inching snail back to Demba as Demba stared past Mor at the other Danka Boys. Mor was one of them now, and he had to get them fish. He also needed more fish to sell to help Amina.
When he and Demba were on the water, his every thought was consumed with bringing Papis what he wanted. And finding a way to get more money for Amina. Should he just ask Demba to catch more? Could he manage to get a few on his own? He wondered if Demba would be disappointed in him for joining the Danka Boys.
“Demba . . .” Mor’s voice battled with the grunt of the engine. “Could we put a few more fish in the bucket today? That is, if we are lucky enough to catch more.”
At first Mor wasn’t sure Demba heard him. Then Demba said, “Golden skies again and again. Fish too.”
Mor had been getting so good with Demba’s coded messages, but this one made him wonder. Did he mean there would always be plenty of fish, or something else? Then, as if he had read Mor’s thoughts once again, he said, “Greed chases the horizon but never catches the golden sky.”
Demba knew, like Amina had, that no amount of fish would ever be enough for Papis. That nothing would ever be enough for him. That he would always want more. Mor had been excited about the francs Papis put in his hand, but he knew it all might come with an even higher price.
When they got to shore, they had the same three buckets full of fish they always had. There were no more in them and no less. Mor had asked Demba over and over if they could catch a few more, but after the first time he had not replied. As usual, Mor headed to Basmah’s table, while Demba waited with the bikes at the edge of the market. When Mor rounded the corner near her stall, he noticed Lokho sniffing the ground before he saw Papis. He stopped and cast a glance back toward where Demba had been, but he couldn’t see him or the bikes.
“I know you weren’t going to that market lady before you found me?” Papis asked.
“I didn’t know where you were,” Mor said.
“Well, you do now.” Papis gestured for Diallo, who hopped off a crumbling wall to take the bucket from Mor.
Mor held the handle back. “These are for Basmah.”
“Have you already forgotten? You’re a Danka Boy now. You share everything with us and we share with you. Chickens, balls, a cut of our winnings.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“You don’t get it. You don’t have to. And there could be more. Just tell me what you need”—he snapped his fingers—“and I can have it.”
Papis stared at Mor, his eyes shifting back and forth, as Diallo hovered over the bucket, waiting.
Mor didn’t want to know how, but he was sure Papis could probably find the money to pay for Amina’s school in a second. How easy it could be. He looked down at the fish, deciding whether to hand Diallo a few. What would that hurt? He would find some way to make it up to Demba.
“You know what,” Papis said. “Go on, sell the fish.”
Mor exhaled. He rushed to walk away before Papis changed his mind.
“The money would be better anyway.”
Mor stopped. Water splashed out of the bucket.
“Eh, what goes on over there?” Basmah yelled, her hand on one hip, a machete for hacking fresh coconuts in the other.
Papis came close to Mor, his breath a blanket on the side of Mor’s neck. “Remember, we come first now, brother.”
Papis and Diallo sauntered away as if they had only stopped to say hello.
Mor’s heart pounded against his chest. Then he caught sight of Demba staring from a distance and hurriedly looked away.
“What were those boys wanting of you?” Basmah asked when Mor reached her.
“There is nothing good there, especially for a boy like you. Don’t let them rob you of your goodness.” She took the fish from Mor, and like each day, she was about to pay him for them, when he stopped her.
His eyes quickly searched the space around them. “Um, could you hold it for Demba? For tomorrow?”
As if no explanation was needed, she scanned the area herself, then nodded. He would find another way to give the Danka Boys what they wanted without involving Demba or his other friends. Or at least he hoped he could, even though he had no clue how just yet.
When Mor got back to Demba and their bicycles, Demba said nothing about what he’d seen. They simply rode out of town in silence and rode back after their deliveries in the same way. They passed down the main road, as they always did. And as usual, the street was alive with activity. Vendors were selling, tourist buses spit smoke, toubabs took pictures of everything with their fancy cameras, and village girls hawked their wares from baskets, buckets, and tarps at the roadway’s edge.
Off to the side a small group of tourists crowded over something or someone. Mor paid little attention as he passed, but when he heard the unmistakable giggle of Fatima, he dug his heels into the dirt. Demba kept pedaling, but after a few seconds he slowed, looking back. Mor jumped off his bike, maneuvering to the crowd. When he peeked past the arms of two tourists, he was surprised to see Fatima posing with three of her rocks dolls as a woman took her photograph.
“This is me.” She held out one rock. “And this is my sister, Mina, and this is Jeeg. See, doesn’t it look just like her?” She held the rock next to Jeeg, who stood by her side. The woman gave a delayed laugh as a black man with them translated Fatima’s words into a language Mor could not understand. She and another woman nodded at the man, then one crouched down to have her picture taken with Fatima and Jeeg.
“What are you doing here alone?” Mor pushed through the crowd, about to snatch Fatima from where she stood, not caring about interrupting the woman’s picture. Then he saw Amina, Naza, and Oumy kneeling on a tarp, a cluster of travelers around them as well.
“Oh,” Fatima said, excited. “This is my big brother, Mor.” She rooted around in the dirt to find the stone Amina had made of him in a yellow fabric soccer jersey with a tiny green star painted on the front of it. Fatima held it up and then giggled, picking up another. “And this is Demba,” she said. “Our friend.” She pointed to Demba, standing in the road with the bikes.
The tourists turned, cameras flashing.
“He even has a little bird that flies around his head. Can you see it?” Fatima asked the toubabs, her finger outstretched. “Everybody thinks he is scary, but he is very nice. He plays with me and my rocks whenever he comes over.” She beamed.
The interpreter translated and the tourists laughed. They talked rapidly to one another.
Mor just stared.
Amina sat on the square blue tarp, surrounded by baskets of rock dolls of all shapes and sizes. Some rocks had clothing and some did not, some showed flowers, while others showed baskets of fish or tàngal or a horse and cart. There were even pale-faced ones with bright-pink cheeks, blue eyes, and a stripe of white lotion down some of their noses.
“Did you paint all these?” Mor asked, not believing what he saw. “How? When?”
“With these,” Amina said, lifting her hands. Then she turned her palm up, taking money from one of the travelers, who held a set of five stones in her hand. “When you were out.”
“She is buying them for her grandson,” the interpreter told Amina with a smile. “She thinks he will like the car rapide bus most.”
Amina nodded her thanks, putting the money she’d received into a green tin box that sat in Naza’s lap. Naza had a stick and was writing numbers in the sand for another woman, who held up six fingers.
Mor’s eyes bulged as he looked in the tin and saw a couple of folded bills and coins before Naza closed the lid. A flat basket held a needle and thread and a couple of little outfits, which a tourist was picking through.
How had he not realized? She hadn’t been making all those rock dolls for just Tima and Oumy. She’d been making them to sell.
“Why did you not tell me?” he asked his sister as another traveler reached in front of him to take the small wooden gaal Oumy held out to him.
Mor watched as the familiar toy passed by his face. It looked like the ones Cheikh had always whittled, but it was painted. A handful of other painted wooden toys sat before Oumy. Mor looked at her closely. Did she know Cheikh was here? Had he made these for them to sell?
He wanted to ask so many more questions but didn’t want to be in the way. “They are trying to raise money for their schooling,” Mor heard Fatima say. “Then when I get older, we will need to make even more rock dolls for me and Oumy to go too.”
At first Mor was ashamed he couldn’t provide all the money for them, then, stepping back, he smiled watching Fatima pose with her rock dolls and Jeeg. He was proud of both of his sisters.
When he stepped back to Demba’s side, he looked up at his friend. “Did you know?”
Demba held Mor’s bike out to him, then pulled a rock doll out of his pocket. It didn’t look like Demba.
Mor stared closer. “Is that me?” he asked. Then he realized where he’d seen a shirt that blue. In a picture of Demba as a boy. He scanned his friend’s face. “Idrissa.” Demba pushed the rock doll back into his pocket.
“Idrissa built rock castles.”
Mor stopped. Those were the most untangled words Demba had ever spoken.
“What was he like? Can you tell me?” Mor asked.
Demba waited for Mor to take his bike.
“Please.”
“He was the sea, the sand, and the sunshine.” Demba’s eyes were bright and clear, staring off. “He was life, and giggles, light.”
Mor didn’t want to move as Demba spoke, but Demba still held Mor’s bike out to him. He took it, and they meandered through the flow of people, away from the main road. Mor hoped Demba would say more. But he didn’t. Instead he got back on his bike, and they rode away from the noises of the village center.
“Your light is not far.”
“What do you mean?” Mor asked. He pedaled fast to keep up with Demba’s easy pushes against his own pedals.
Then Demba turned down a path they didn’t usually travel but Mor knew well. It was the road his baay had taken each week to the mechanic shop. When they slowed by the familiar stick fence, Mor rushed forward.
“Why are we here?”
“Your light.”
Mor glanced at the yard. Old motos and parts lay everywhere. “They don’t want me.” Then he turned back to Demba. “And now you don’t want me anymore?” He bit at his bottom lip. “Why have you brought me here? Do you want to get rid of me?”
Demba stared at Mor. “Roots remain for a thousand years.” Then he looked at the entrance to the shop. Mor didn’t want to go in again. He’d really be thought of as a restless gnat. Demba waited. Unable to stall, Mor slid off his bike, letting it settle in the dirt.
When he walked into the yard, Mamadou, Mighty Yacine, and Idy were peering under the hood of a hulking truck. There was no sign of Khalifa. Mamadou had climbed on top of an oil drum to get higher over the engine.
“Assalamu alaikum,” Mor called out.
“And upon you be peace,” the three mechanics responded in unison, turning from the engine. Smiles broke across their lips as they realized who stood before them. Mor smiled back.
“Ah, my young friend,” Mamadou said, jumping down off the drum. “And Fallou’s twin. It is good to see you again. Your bàjjan has called twice asking after you. I have relayed all the messages Coumba Gueye has given. So you are a fisherman now?”
Mor shifted his feet in the dirt. He wondered what his aunt was thinking when she made those calls. He didn’t bother asking if she’d wanted to speak with him or his sisters; he thought he already knew the answer. He glanced around the yard, so many memories present there,
and then his gaze landed on neat rows of small parts laid across a hammered-out metal tabletop. He’d missed Mamadou’s “table of toys,” as Mamadou always called it.
This is where your heart beats like mine, my dome. Where your fingers are energized and your mind shines.
Mor was relieved to hear his father’s words. Since ignoring his last cautions, he’d worried his baay was gone.
“I don’t mean to be a bother,” Mor began. “But I wanted to see if you could change your mind. I’m happiest here, where you and my baay taught me about engines. I’ll listen and do what you tell me. I know I still have too much to learn, but fishermen have trusted me to look at their engines after I helped another out at sea. I am getting better. And if you taught me, I know I could be really good. I could bring you new business, because sometimes I know the days can be slow. The fishermen would come.”
Mamadou cut him off. “Mighty Yacine and Idy have been after me for days to come to your yard.” The other two mechanics nodded. “We’ve missed you here as well. You are a fresh and shining metal among all our rust. Besides, your presence would never be as much of a bother as my troublesome nephew was to me.”
“Yaa . . . yaa . . . yaa.” Mighty Yacine slapped her hand against her forehead, shaking it.
“He ruined everything he touched. I had to toss him back to my sister before he ruined my business,” Mamadou continued. “Even though you still can’t reach the steering wheel and pedals all at once, you already know more than he ever will. I can’t pay you much, because I don’t have much to pay, but my true wealth is in here.” He tapped the side of his head with his grease-stained finger. “And I’ll share it with you.”
Mor bounced, excited. How had Demba known? His smile broadened. I shouldn’t be surprised, he thought. Demba knows everything. Mighty Yacine and Idy shook his hand and patted his back.
“We will do the heavy lifting,” Mighty Yacine added.
“And you’ll be our eyes,” said Idy, pushing up his glasses, as Mighty Yacine and Mamadou nodded in agreement.
Is it that easy? Mor wondered, not trusting that he could have one of his most heartfelt wishes come true.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 24