“Um, we’ll be back,” Mor said, rushing to join Demba.
“If you must.” Amadou clasped his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes, getting comfortable in his seat.
Mor hauled the bucket of fish and seawater over to where Demba was, out of view of the tables. The fish lay in a heap, thrashing their fins in the shallow water. Mor’s rippled reflection wavered as he stared till his eyes glossed over. The shadow of Demba’s dreadlocks was visible in the sand when he stood over Mor. His well-used mortar and pestle were in one hand, while he held the little jar Mor had seen in the old woman’s home and his bulging bag in the other.
“I just want them to leave me alone,” Mor confessed. “To leave us alone. Our fish, you, me, Basmah, my sisters. I don’t really want them to hurt. But I want it to all stop.” He eyed the jar.
Demba bent down and handed Mor the bowl and grinding tool, and then pulled a few leaves from his bag, tore them into pieces, and dropped them and some berries into the mortar. “Grind.” He motioned toward the pestle. Soon a juicy paste emerged. Demba scooped up a handful of salt water from the bucket of fish and dumped it into the mortar. Then he tore up a few more leaves. They were a waxy, dark green with thorny points and floated on the surface of Demba’s liquid concoction.
“What are those?” Mor sniffed the mixture and crinkled his nose. It smelled of warm cow dung. He buried his face in the fabric of his T-shirt.
He kept his nose and mouth tucked in the crook of his arm and scraped the paste into the bucket as Demba instructed. Then he used a stick to stir the water and paste, careful not to jab the fish. The water had an iridescent film, and a few of the squashed leaves that had not settled to the bottom of the bucket floated on top.
Mor tapped his finger on the surface of the water, then brought it to his nose. The smell almost curdled his stomach. He pulled it away from his face and wiped his finger in the sand. Then he stared at Demba in wonder. “How do you always know exactly what I want? What I need?”
“My eyes are not clouded.”
“This won’t harm them really, will it? Just keep them away? I only want them to stay away.” Mor felt his khalat stirring. His conscience was on guard.
“Wants are gifts we do not always receive.”
“But will it work this time?” Mor asked. He heard the desperation in his own voice. He just wanted Demba to tell him it would all be okay, even if it wouldn’t. He just needed to hear that.
Fatima’s laughter suddenly bounced in the air from the front of the shack.
“It has to work,” Mor whispered.
Demba pointed at a ramshackle outhouse under a tree, then back at the bucket. The skin at his eyes crinkled in the corners. The amusement that was stamped there helped ease Mor’s worries at least for the moment.
“Let’s eat,” Amadou called as Fatima and Amina poked their heads around the corner. Mor was grateful Amadou steered his sisters back to the table with Basmah.
As he grabbed the bucket to move it farther into the shade, water sloshed and a smell like rotten eggs and feces commanded all attention. Mor prayed the stench would die down. Otherwise, Papis and his friends would back away before he could even hand them the fish. For a split second he thought smearing himself in cow dung might be a better solution.
He placed the bucket a safe distance away from Amadou’s table but still within sight. Fewer fish flinched and flapped as Demba’s concoction saturated the salt water. Mor’s stomach jumbled with anxiety again as he wished for the moment this could all be over.
WATER sloshed around, wetting the side of Mor’s shorts and trickling down his leg, as he lugged the bucket home. The overpowering smell of Demba’s mixture had lessened, camouflaged by the heavy scent of fish and waste from the market. Nothing about the water looked different from any other seawater except for the tiny pieces of leaves and berry skins that had fallen to the bottom of the bucket along with sand.
Fatima skipped in front of her brother and Amina, who steered Mor’s bike beside her. Fatima’s smile took up half her face, and Mor was sure her full stomach lay happy under the fabric of her dress. Unlike Mor, she had been able to enjoy the wonderful feast Amadou had prepared, while Mor had gone through the motions of nibbling his food but tasted nothing.
“What are you going to do with those?” Fatima hopped in front of him. She stuck her head close to the water and poked at the fish.
“Don’t,” he shouted louder than intended. He swung the bucket away from her, water slopping. But not before she’d submerged her finger in it.
Amina pulled Fatima close to her with one arm, glaring at their brother. He dropped the bucket and took Fatima’s tiny finger in his hand and wiped it dry with a corner of his shirt. “When we get home, wash it good.”
“Why?” Fatima asked. “I can lick it clean.” She brought her finger up to her lips and opened her mouth to suck it.
Mor snatched it away. The force of his hand caused Fatima to scratch her cheek with her nail, close to her eye. She yelped and smashed her face into Amina’s dress, crying.
“Mor, what are you doing?” Amina said, holding her sister close.
“Sorry. I’m sorry, Tima.” He knelt in front of Fatima and tried to get her to face him, but she wouldn’t budge from the fold of Amina’s sër. “Tima, please don’t lick your finger or rub your eyes until your finger is clean.”
“Why?” Amina cut in. “You are a fool if you have done something to those fish.”
“I’m not.” Mor straightened. “Why can you never trust that I’ll do all I can for us?”
“I do,” she said. “I have, but my place in our family is not always to trust with blindfolded eyes,” she said flatly. “Yaay always told me to never stop questioning, because that will keep us safe.”
“I will keep us safe,” Mor added.
“You are trying, yes. But what have you done to those fish, then?” she asked, glaring at the bucket. “Why have you given Tima a scare?”
“It’s nothing,” Mor said, heaving the bucket up again. “Just make sure she washes her hand.”
Amina stopped in the middle of the path, blocking him. Her hands were in fists against her waist. She was just out of earshot of a cluster of women sitting on cement bricks and plastic chairs in the shade of a tree, but she still whispered. “You think I don’t know you’re giving those fish to that boy and his friends?” Her eyebrows rose as she spoke. “Even if you give them some today, they will be back tomorrow. And if there is something wrong with the fish, it will be even worse. Then what will you do?”
“I have to try. I can’t sit and do nothing. Maybe they will leave my fish alone after this. Maybe they will think it is no longer worth the risk.”
“Or maybe they will find another way to harm you. Us. Have you thought of that?”
“Stop, Mina.” He drew back his shoulders. “I have to try. And if you have no better suggestion, leave me alone. I don’t need your doubt kicking me right now.”
Amina opened her mouth, then closed it again. She and Mor stared at each other, Fatima looking between both of them.
“Mor Fall.” He turned away from Amina and squinted toward the multicolored boubous and head scarves of the women sitting under the tree. “I was telling my cousins that you are doing good things out on that water.” He searched Tanta Coumba out among the women. She sat at the center of the group, baby Zal snuggled at her breast, eating hungrily. “Why is it that these last few days I only see you when you are passing down the road or I am on my way to market? You are not like your sisters, who I see at least three times a day. Haven’t you learned the way to a woman’s heart?” she teased. Her head tilted back, and her laugh seemed to spring off the shoulders of the other women, making them laugh as well.
Mor was not sure how to respond with so many eyes on him.
She adjusted her son in her arms. “Going to see a woman is what captures her heart.” She leaned in and whispered, as if giving the code to a secret combination. “You need to st
op at my door. Not because I catch you sneaking by, but because you want to come to it. Understand?”
Mor nodded. But he found it harder and harder to greet her, knowing he was keeping Cheikh a secret from her. She talked of her son every time Mor saw her.
“The water keeps me busy.” He lowered his head in apology. “And I haven’t wanted to disturb you.”
“Nonsense. You must come. I love your company, especially with Cheikh so long away.”
Even though dark rings pressed under them, Tanta Coumba’s eyes were bright. Her face was set in a relaxed grin. He noticed her gaze and the other women’s rested on his bucket of fish. He wished the dirt under his feet would open and swallow it whole.
It was expected of him to offer her some. Though he knew she would always turn it down unless it came directly from Demba, Mor couldn’t take a risk that she would say yes today. His grip tightened on the handle. All the women looked from him to the full bucket. Their expressions were changing. “I know you sell those to Basmah in the market,” Tanta Coumba began. “You better get to her before they spoil.”
Mor’s heart burned with thanks. They both knew Basmah and the market were behind him, but she had given him a way out.
“Get on your way, Mor Fall. But remember a woman’s heart. . . .” She grinned at Amina and Fatima.
“Incha’Allah.” Mor did not meet her eyes. He did not know how he would face her if Cheikh became very sick from eating his fish.
“Go now,” she said again, as if giving his feet a gentle push forward in the dirt. “You are making your parents proud.”
But was he? The weight of the fish doubled in his hand.
How would his parents feel about the tainted fish he carried? Looking up into the clouds, he thought, Am I doing right?
A leader does not falter on the path he has chosen. Go forward with confidence. Camouflage your worry and doubts. For they are what will cripple you before your enemy even takes aim.
But have I chosen the right way? Mor wondered.
Only time can reveal the reward of your choice.
“But what do you think?” he asked aloud, wanting more than anything to hear his father say that what he planned to do was okay. “Baay? Are you there?”
It no longer matters what I think. As a man it is your choice and your consequence.
Mor stared up at the sky, and when he looked back ahead, Amina’s eyes were trained on him, full of questions and concern, but she said nothing.
He truly wished she could hear their baay too.
As Amina and Fatima stepped into their home, Mor searched the road around him; there was no sign of the Danka Boys or anyone else. He sighed. His arms and shoulders ached from carrying the bucket. Splotches of water freckled the path like bread crumbs to his door. Glancing around once more, he hoisted the bucket up and trudged inside his home.
He and Amina sat in opposite corners, while Fatima lay on her belly in the center of the floor, kicking her feet and playing with her rock toys as Jeeg watched. Mor stared at his youngest sister for a while, a war battling out in his head. He did not know whether to go out, stay and wait, or hide.
He tried to lie down, but his muscles twitched, not letting him relax.
Soon he paced the floor, creating a carpet of footprints.
“Why don’t you sit down?” Amina snapped, shifting on the pallet. “You’re going to wear the dirt down to the middle of the earth.”
Mor stood still for a second, then treaded in a different direction. What if they don’t come? Then his plan would be for naught, and his courage would surely seep away like the water if he dumped out the fish. He eyed the wrinkled picture of his yaay and baay sitting on the shelf.
“I have to go.” He spoke hurriedly, glancing out the open window.
In a panic-free second, with all his restlessness and frustration propelling him forward, he made a decision. He was going to find the Danka Boys.
ONCE outside, Mor made it only two paths away from his home before he heard Papis’s taunting voice.
“Eh, where have you been? Don’t you have something for your boys?” Diallo, Abou, Laye, Lokho, and even Cheikh were around him. “Where’s our money?”
“I don’t have any,” Mor said. “I have fish.”
“I see that. But that isn’t what I asked for. Don’t tell me you can’t listen.” Papis stepped forward. So did Diallo and Abou. He scraped the end of a sothiou across his teeth. The chew stick left pieces of bark sticking to his lips and tongue. He made a ticking sound.
“Here,” Mor said, raising the bucket. His arms shook, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the weight of the bucket or his nerves.
“I don’t want rotting fish anymore—I want money.”
Mor wondered if he could smell the concoction. “I told you. I don’t have any.”
“Why do you keep lying to us? We see you getting money in the market. That lady is always slipping it out of her little pouch. You are one of us now. We come before everyone else.”
“I don’t want to be one of you anymore,” Mor said. “I never really was.” He glared at Cheikh, surprised he was so close to home in the middle of the day.
Papis scoffed. “You disappoint me. But you aren’t the only one.” He cut his eyes toward Cheikh. “Sometimes the word of a brother isn’t as strong as it used to be. But that is no matter.” His voice dropped a bit and turned menacing. “But you will still bring me what I want. You have not seen me at my best. Things for you could get much, much worse.” He poked Mor’s chest. Water spilled on his Conforce sneakers, knockoffs of the famous American brand. “Hey, watch it.” He leaped back. “Handle this boy,” he ordered. “I am growing tired of talking.” He yanked the sothiou out of his mouth and swung it like a conductor’s wand, ordering Cheikh and the others to play his tune.
Diallo stepped forward first, his chest puffed out. “There better be a lot of fish in that bucket for me.”
“For you?” Papis yanked Diallo by the collar of his shirt, choking him. Diallo’s eyes bulged. Papis spit yellow splinters of bark out of his mouth like sparks of dragon fire. “Don’t forget yourself. Everything you get is for me first. You get my scraps . . . after Lokho.” Papis snickered and turned toward his mangy dog, who was scratching himself.
Diallo slunk back. Mor watched as one of his own bullies got bullied himself. When Papis reached for the bucket, Mor tugged the handle back. His courage and determination were growing. “It’s not for you anymore.”
“Don’t play with me, boy,” Papis warned. “I’ll cut you.”
It is now or never, Mor thought. He knew just the fish would not be enough. Superstitions played heavily in his thoughts. He remembered the fishermen’s reactions that day on the water with Demba. He himself did not believe almost anything could be a sign of evil, but he hoped the Danka Boys felt differently.
He inhaled deeply and whispered to his father’s spirit for strength. Then he jerked his body, muttering. At first it was just a low hiss, but then his lips shook, a rapid stream of words flying from his throat. Cheikh’s brow made one line, and Papis and the other Danka Boys took cautious steps backward, staring. They concentrated on Mor, their focus as steady as that of an antelope tracking danger. Mor felt ridiculous, but he knew this was the only way. He closed his eyes, squeezing his eyelids tight.
“Hey, man, what is he doing?” Laye asked. The ground crunched under his feet as he backed away even farther. “I’ve seen people doing stuff like this before. He’s crazy.”
“He’s as doff as that Demba,” Cheikh pointed out.
“Yeah, man,” Papis laughed. Then he choked on his laughter when Mor’s eyes shot open, staring directly at him. Papis sprang backward, startled. But realizing all eyes were on him now, he stopped and tried to snatch the handle from Mor again. This time Papis underestimated the strength of Mor’s grip. Papis had to yank up, bringing the bucket close to his body. A wave of water rose from it. Droplets flew—splashing against his chest and into his eye. The chew
stick fell from his lips. “Ahh!” Papis yelled. He wiped his wet hands across his face. “My eyes are burning.” He tripped over his own feet, blinking. “What did you do to me?”
Mor took a deep breath. His plan was working better than he’d imagined. If pretending to be a téere sorcièr was what it took to get Papis to leave him alone, he was up for the challenge. He continued mumbling and muttering; even a frothing bubble of spit piled at the corner of his lips.
Lokho snarled, baring teeth.
“Those who harm me will be harmed,” Mor professed in a garble of words.
The Danka Boys pushed at one another, seeing who could put the most distance between themselves and Mor.
“Eh . . . I wouldn’t mess with him,” Cheikh warned. He shook his finger in Mor’s direction. “You heard what Demba did to that fisherman’s boat when he laughed at him?”
“Yeah,” Abou agreed. “This khale can probably do the same. Let’s get out of here.” Abou shuffled back a few more steps.
Laye joined him.
Cheikh, Diallo, and Papis remained.
Papis stumbled in Cheikh’s direction, pushing him out of his way. Papis’s arms stretched in front of him. His eyes were pressed shut, water webbing in his lashes.
“Where you at, you badola?” Papis balled his hands and swung at the air, searching for Mor.
Mor dipped and swayed, dodging the frantic blows that came his way. Cheikh and Diallo had to do the same. Rubbing his eyes, Papis swore under his breath. “You better not let me find you. . . .”
“I would get out of here, if I were you,” Cheikh whispered close to Mor’s ear. “If he catches you—” But before he could get the next word out, Papis lunged for Mor.
He caught hold of Mor’s shirtsleeve and whirled him around, causing Mor to lose his balance a bit. When the first punch made contact with Mor’s jaw, his head flopped to the side. The pressure of Papis’s fist mashed the jellylike flesh of Mor’s inner cheek against his teeth, cutting the inside of his mouth. He tasted blood. Then another blow whizzed past his ear, followed quickly by another that slid off his cheek.
One Shadow on the Wall Page 26