One Shadow on the Wall

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One Shadow on the Wall Page 25

by Leah Henderson


  “We are ready to have you back whenever you want to come,” Mamadou said. Then he held up his palm at Mor. “But I still want you in school. You cannot run a business if you have bolts and piston rings rattling around in your head instead of sense. I learned that from Khalifa.”

  “School?”

  “Yes,” Mamadou said, smirking. “The place with books and pencils.”

  Since the day his bàjjan left, Amina’s schooling had been his focus, not his own. He had thought that was over for him, telling himself that it wasn’t important to him. But now Mamadou was telling him he didn’t have to choose—school or work. He could have both.

  “Your baay would come down from the heavens and rattle my life if I took that away from you. He always bragged that all his children were going to be a hundred times smarter than him.”

  “Yes, I will go to school,” Mor said. “I promise. Thank you, sir.”

  After saying good-bye, he rushed out of the shop, eager to tell Demba the news. Then he paused. When would he fish with Demba?

  As if Demba heard Mor’s thoughts again, he said, “Fish welcome dawn.”

  He was right. He wouldn’t be able to go to the market, but dawn would be their time together. Then village school. Then Mamadou’s shop.

  Mor’s smile spread wide. After so many bends and turns, he thought he could finally take a breath, if he could just figure out what to do about the Danka Boys.

  WHEN Mor got down to the shore the next morning, a crowd of fishermen were circled around where Demba’s gaal rested on the shore.

  Mor dropped his bike in the sand and raced forward toward the tops of Demba’s dreadlocks and the weaverbird peeking over everyone else’s heads.

  “Excuse me. Let me through, please,” Mor said, pushing past elbows and hips to get to Demba, who stood at the center of it all. “What’s going on . . . ,” he started to say, then saw the answer.

  A perfectly charred hole marred the side of Demba’s boat, big enough to kick a soccer ball through, but not large enough to pass one of their buckets.

  “It was the Danka Boys,” Mor yelled. “They did this.” The accusation was out of his mouth before he even thought it through. He didn’t care, though. They had gone too far. They had messed with too many people he cared about. He had thought everyone was safe now. “They did it because of me,” Mor said under his breath. “I don’t want to be a Danka Boy.”

  “I don’t know who the Danka Boys are, young man,” Souleymane piped up, “but I do know we have enough supplies around here to fix this. Babacar, Adama, Seydou, grab your tools. Issa, Daning, and Aziz, pull off some of the wood planks on the old Diop gaal. A friend I owe a debt to in more than five fish needs our help. We are fishermen together.”

  Souleymane barked orders to the others, and everyone fell in line helping fix Demba’s boat, as if a harsh word had never fallen on the waters between them. Demba stared at his gaal as a few of the men broke off the burned wood, ready to replace it.

  “Demba, did you hear me?” Mor said again, scooting out of the way when the ruined planks were thrown in the sand by his feet. “The Danka Boys have done this. I thought if I joined them, we would all be okay. But we won’t be, will we? I’m sorry they’ve done this. I’m sorry I’ve brought them here, too.”

  “Storms fall where they choose.” Demba stared at Mor as men leaned over Demba’s gaal, stuffing and hammering wads of palm fiber in between the newly fastened planks to make sure the boat was watertight.

  Mor listened to the banging around him, wishing the Danka Boys would find somewhere far away for their thunder. He’d thought he could protect everyone on his own, but now he wasn’t sure. Had he made a mistake in trying to stay? In trying to keep his baay’s promise?

  Within three hours Demba’s gaal was back on the water and all the fishermen were casting out their nets again. The boat’s swaying made Mor feel like a novice on the water. The Danka Boys’ faces invaded his every thought. He could think of nothing but silly, childish threats, which would never scare them. Or worse, things that would give them more reason to torment him, his friends, and his family. Being with them seemed no better.

  Demba had watched him all morning, staying silent except for a mutter or two when it was time to cast out or drag in the nets. But his eyes followed every movement of his boatmate. Mor sat with his knees locked at his chest, as if his thoughts were a thousand people crowding the gaal. The breeze sliced across the choppy ocean waters. He dipped his finger into the water and brought it to his lips, which were parched and scaly. Absentmindedly, he ran his tongue over the chapped grooves. The salty liquid tickled his tongue and stung his broken skin.

  Giving no warning, Demba swatted Mor’s hand from his lips. Startled, Mor hopped back, sending the boat into a wobble.

  “A sea of fire will twist your insides.” Demba motioned toward the water and then shook his hand. He hunched over, holding his stomach, and rocked more vigorously than the boat on the waves. He crinkled up his face as if in pain.

  Mor would have laughed at Demba’s acting if he hadn’t been so worried.

  “I wish I could make Papis’s belly ache like that,” Mor mumbled. “And Cheikh’s, too.”

  He wished for anything that would stop them from wanting to eat for a while. He could not knock their teeth out with one punch, as Papis had once threatened to do, or frighten them in their own barak, but maybe, just maybe, he could figure out a way to make their stomachs fold over in pain so they would no longer trust his fish. Without much thought, he sorted the fish into the tie-dye-patterned buckets, flinging them this way and that. Then, when he tossed a fish and it missed the bucket, landing in the mucky water at the bottom of the boat, Mor flung his head back as if receiving an electric jolt. He had an idea.

  “Could we catch a few more?” He gestured to the fish when Demba started the motor.

  Mor’s question was met with a blank stare.

  “Just a couple,” he asked. “We might need them, since Basmah and my sisters are eating with us today.”

  Demba peered into each bucket, studying the contents as if he had special vision that allowed him to see and count each fish in the tangle of tails. He reached for the motor’s throttle.

  “Wait . . . ,” Mor began. He knew in order for his plan to work, he needed a lot more fish. “I need them, Demba.” He swallowed, his throat still scratchy from the salt water. “Please.”

  The hull of the gaal was full for Demba, even though there were only three or four plastic buckets alive with flopping fish splashing in water. Demba had told Mor once that to lure even one more fish into his net at that point would be selfish, because four buckets gave everyone what they needed—no more, no less.

  Right now Mor disagreed. He needed more.

  Demba glanced into the buckets again and then at Mor. Demba’s eyes seemed to drill a tunnel into Mor’s brain. Mor wanted him to see that he was determined to prove he could take care of himself and his sisters. He was ready to show he could be a man. When the netting under his feet was yanked, Mor jumped.

  Demba stood, clutching a handful of net. He leaned near the side of the boat and waited for Mor to pick up his end. They cast the net out one last time. It sank quickly, unlike the nervous anxiety at the bottom of Mor’s stomach.

  He watched the net submerge, and then they quickly snatched it up, pulling it in. Mor always marveled when there was something inside. So many times fishermen’s nets came back empty. They hoisted the net out of the water, and after they sorted the fish into the already-full buckets, Demba waited for Mor to speak.

  “Jërëjëf.” Mor couldn’t meet his gaze. He didn’t want him to see in his eyes the desperation that he felt.

  He didn’t know what else to do.

  As Demba started the engine for home, Mor let his plan play out in his head. Nervous adrenaline churned inside him like the propeller blades spun the water. His every thought was on the fish and what to do with them. He craned his head up to the cloudless sky, hop
ing his idea would work.

  It had to.

  ONCE on shore, Mor and Demba threw the extra fish into a fifth bucket Demba usually used for random things they pulled from the sea: old sandals, plastic, rubber, or anything else that didn’t belong. Then they hauled the heavy buckets up to the roadway. Demba fastened four to his bicycle, since Mor still couldn’t completely balance with more than one. Then as he climbed on his bike, he reached out to Mor for the last bucket. Mor hesitated, hugging the pail close to his chest. Demba patted the top of the handlebar, ready to secure the bucket.

  Mor hesitated. “I was hoping to take this one.”

  “To Amadou.”

  “No.” Mor tried again. “For me. I was hoping to keep it for me.”

  Demba took the bucket from Mor’s hand and rested it on the middle bar, wrapping a cloth around it and his waist as a belt. Then he pushed off.

  Disappointed, Mor watched him go. He glanced back at the gaal, wishing he could push the heavy boat out to sea on his own. Knowing it was a hopeless thought, he climbed on his bike and tried to think of another solution.

  When Mor pedaled up to Chez Amadou’s, Demba was waiting, holding out the fifth bucket. Mor slid his feet to the dirt to stop beside him.

  “This isn’t for him?” Mor glanced at the shack.

  Demba thrust the bucket at Mor’s chest. Water splashed up, coating Mor’s shirt.

  “Your battle.”

  The word “battle” sat heavy in Mor’s ears. Now that he had the fish again, he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t want to battle anyone. He just wanted to protect everyone. He left the fish in a corner by Amadou’s for safekeeping, then hustled back to his bike and a waiting Demba. Once out in the plains, they bumped along past where Demba picked berries and leaves. Mor swung his head to the side, almost causing his bike to topple over. As they rushed by plants, he wondered what they were all for. But before he could ask, doubt filled him. He didn’t think he could go through with it. Or that his plan would even work.

  Courage is your strongest weapon, my son. And opportunity your ally. Do what you must in these hours of war.

  Another fighting word. Mor wanted no battle and he wanted no war, but his baay’s voice mixed with his own frustrations and was the welcome push he needed.

  “Demba,” he began. “What berries would I need to bring fire to someone’s belly?”

  Demba did not answer. He just continued to pedal.

  Mor raced to catch up to him; even with all the buckets, he was still faster than Mor, as if buckets of fish and water were strings tied to his bicycle.

  “Demba, I need your help,” Mor said as he caught up to him. “Will you help me?”

  In answer, Demba turned down a new path. Letting his foot drag along the gravel road, Demba slowed his bike, and Mor did the same.

  “Fire cannot settle all things.”

  Demba climbed off his bike and left Mor in charge of keeping it and the buckets upright. Demba squatted in the grasses, pulling back branches and bushes. He tore leaves off a few plants and put them in his small satchel, the same one he had brought to help Amina. Then he tramped deeper into the thicket. The trees snapped behind him, curtaining him from view. Mor held tight to the handlebars, wishing he had the neck of a giraffe as he strained to see.

  The bushes shook and parted. Then Demba came back into view. The pouch he held had swelled. He swung his leg over his bike and settled in, waiting for Mor to climb back on his own.

  Mor kept his eyes on the road ahead, but his focus was on the leaves Demba had collected. Were they for him?

  The dread in his stomach leaded Mor down with knots.

  His thighs ached and sweat littered his forehead by the time they reached the first outcropping of homes they always went to. He tried to push his thoughts away as he followed behind Demba, wanting to ask another question about the plants he’d picked, but Demba was immediately swallowed by hugs from Yvette, as if she hadn’t seen him three days before. Water spilled from the buckets on his bike.

  “Ah, it is always nice to see you again, mirror of Idrissa.” Yvette always greeted Mor the same way. He liked it. It seemed to bring light to Demba’s eyes when she said it, in the same way that Amina stood a little taller when people called her “Awa’s little double.” “It always does our hearts well to see you.”

  She patted Mor’s arm and led the way to the old woman’s home. As usual, Mor sat on the stump under the window and waited.

  “Why do you need those? They are a step away from poison if not handled right,” Mor heard Yvette say.

  He peeked through the window and saw Demba taking a jar of dark berries off a shelf lined with other jars, much like the shelf in Demba’s own home.

  “They will not hurt a thing,” the old woman said to her daughter. “They bring heat when heat is needed. Demba knows more about these things than any of us do now. He is even my brain at times.”

  A few moments later Demba came back outside, the little jar concealed in his sack. When they got back to the bikes, two buckets were loaded down with handwoven reed baskets, animal skins, and bananas. Like every time they had come before, three young girls took the remaining fish to smoke, so they could sell them to people even farther from the water. Yvette’s daughters always left things behind in the buckets that people had traded for the fish instead of coins.

  As they waved good-bye, Mor couldn’t wait to ask Demba about the jar.

  When they reached Chez Amadou’s, Demba placed the buckets in the sand and leaned their bikes against the wall.

  “Ah, there you are,” Amadou said, appearing around the side of the eatery. His sandals were covered with granules of sand. “I wondered how much longer you would be.” He wiped his hands on a cloth, then slung it over his shoulder. “Come, come. The ladies will be here soon,” he said to Mor.

  Mor glanced at Demba, wanting to see if any of the plants, berries, and roots were for him. But he joined Amadou instead.

  “Why do you look as though you’ve eaten something sour?” Amadou’s booming voice was full of mirth. “You don’t want to be my sous-chef and help make my famous ceebu jën?”

  “No. I do,” Mor said, giving Demba a last look.

  “Don’t worry about him.” Amadou’s eyes rested on Demba. “He enjoys watching the waves.”

  Tomato broth bubbled in an enormous pot. Yams, onions, carrots, cassava, and a tiny dried herring added for flavor bobbed to the surface. The smells were dizzying, gnawing at Mor’s concentration. He inhaled deeply.

  “Wash your hands, then, and scoop out the vegetables while I drain the soaking rice.”

  Mor scrubbed his hands in a bowl of sudsy water, then took the spoon, finding it hard not to grab small pieces of steaming cassava or carrot as he pulled them out, placing them in a covered bowl.

  “Go on, taste it.” Amadou nudged Mor’s shoulder. “Do we need more flavor?”

  Mor tapped the spoon against his palm like his yaay and Amina always did. Broth dripped down his hand, but he caught it with his tongue. Smacking his lips, he wanted another taste.

  “It’s perfect. But I can try it again to be sure,” he offered.

  “Ha ha . . . ,” Amadou chuckled. “Yes, why don’t you. We can never be too certain.”

  Four clear glass jars with screw-on lids were huddled on a shelf nailed near the fire. One contained salt; another, black pepper; a third, gold-and-red-checkered seasoning cubes; while the last was filled with chili peppers soaked in oil.

  Mor stared at the farthest jar.

  “Ah, you think it could use more spice. A cook after my own heart. Spice makes it dance.” Amadou covered two freshly fried fish with a tin platter to keep them warm, then pricked a habanero pepper with a fork and dropped it into the pot. After it boiled a bit, he scooped it out with a cup of broth and set it to the side, then poured in soaked rice by the handful until it was barely covered with broth. “We don’t want it too hot for your young sisters’ palates. Basmah always says how lovel
y they are when I go to her stall for my supplies.”

  Mor dug his toe into the sand and dragged his attention away from the jar as Amadou spoke.

  “I am excited to have them all join us, aren’t you?” Amadou leaned into the steam. His nostrils flared as he smelled the food. “You will love my fish and rice. It cannot be beat.”

  “Could I have some of those peppers?” Mor pointed to the jar, too preoccupied to really listen to Amadou talk of his prizewinning recipe.

  “Ah, the true sign of a strong man.” Amadou clapped his hand hard against Mor’s back and chuckled. “You like it hot, eh?” Nodding in approval, he took down the jar of oiled peppers and handed it to Mor. “It’s all yours. But I warn you. They are saf.” Amadou’s smile was broad. The gap between his front teeth was almost as wide as Mor’s pinky. “Only use a few drops.”

  Mor dug into his pocket for a couple of coins.

  “Oh, you want the whole jar?” Amadou chuckled, waving his hand. “Put your money away. The fish you and Demba bring are payment enough. Just be careful with that. It can make even the toughest fall.”

  Mor hoped that was true. He thanked him and pushed the jar into his pocket. He noticed it was wet, as if the jar were sweating from what it contained.

  “Now we just need to wait for our guests and our rice.” Amadou took a seat across from Demba at the table, while Mor stood, anxious to get the fish he’d set aside.

  He wondered how many chili pepper seeds he’d need to stuff into each fish to give someone a stomachache, even someone with the strongest of stomachs—something Mor suspected both Cheikh and Papis had. He pulled the small jar out of his pocket, doubting he had enough. His eyes fell to Demba, who still watched the waves.

  Demba turned to him.

  Everything about Mor’s expression said, Demba, I need your help.

  And Demba understood. He got out of the chair and walked to the side of the shack. Mor was right behind him.

  “Hey,” Amadou called. “Where are you two going? They will be here soon.”

 

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