One Shadow on the Wall

by Leah Henderson

  The force of the swing knocked them both into the bucket. It crashed in the dirt. Mor could hardly make out the fish squirming at his feet. The next punch grazed him below his eye. The skin instantly swelled. Then pop—he was struck square in the eye.

  Then the nose.

  “That’s enough, Papis. That’s enough.” Cheikh tried to get between Papis and Mor but found only Papis’s fist instead, right against his ear. He grabbed at it, hunching over.

  Lokho barked and clawed at the dirt.

  Papis snatched at Mor’s shirt again. His grip was like cement, holding Mor in place. Mor tried to duck and dodge, but as if in slow motion; the punches were coming too quick. Each came faster, harder, stronger.

  Mor tripped over the overturned bucket, landing on his hands and knees. Though he was grateful it had dislodged him from Papis’s fist. He hacked, spitting up saliva. His skin burned where Papis had slugged him. Then Mor felt every rib come to life as Papis kicked him. Dust danced around him, landing in his eyes. While Papis rubbed his own eyes, Mor hastened to his knees. He knew if he gave in, Papis would be back tomorrow, the following day, and the next.

  “Every punch you send me, you will feel in the pit of your belly,” Mor wheezed. He spit blood. “Every time you spit on me, your throat will crave liquid.”

  “Shut up,” Papis yelled, shoving him. His eyes were watery and inflamed.

  Mor swayed backward but stayed on his feet. Papis smacked him again and again.

  Mor fell.

  “Stay down. . . .” Mor heard Cheikh’s voice.

  “I can’t,” Mor said, scrambling to his feet only to have the rubber sole of Papis’s sneaker collide with the groove behind his knee.

  Mor’s legs buckled and he collapsed to the ground again. He groaned. When Mor looked up, his eyes locked with Cheikh’s for only a moment. His old friend stood an arm’s length away. Mor tried to call to him, but the words wouldn’t rise in his throat. He gave a halfhearted reach for Cheikh. But instead of Cheikh grabbing hold of his arm, Papis did. Mor yelped in pain as Papis twisted his hand behind his back. Mor was certain it was only a matter of seconds before he heard the snap of his bone.

  “Bayiko, man.” Cheikh bounded forward. “Let him go.” He struggled to pull Papis off Mor.

  Mor blinked rapidly. He thought he was dreaming. Groups of children crowded him from each end of the road. The bucket lay next to him in the dirt. Water dribbled over the lip. And a fish’s protruding eye stared at him. Its mouth was open, gasping for water. Its tail gave a listless swing. It acted as Mor felt.

  I know you are tired, but you are also strong.

  “Baay.” Mor pressed his ear against the cool dirt, wanting to close his eyes.

  It is not your time to rest. You still have work to do.

  “I can’t.”

  You can, and you will. . . .

  MOR did not rise. He did not even grumble. His breathing was shallow and his thoughts slept. His eyelids were sandbags over his eyes. When he hoped he would finally see darkness, he saw an image of his family instead. They were all together, but they were apart. Each member was framed in a bubble. As if each one had floated from a different corner of the village to come home.

  His mother was outside the door of their barak, pounding maize. The steady thump of the wood against the grain matched the drumming of Mor’s heartbeat. Amina sat crossed-legged on her bed mat in a brand-new green uniform, reading aloud to everyone. Fatima played with rock dolls near the door as Jeeg nibbled on an orange peel. Mor’s baay tinkered with a handmade music box, pieces spread across the pallet. Mor remembered the melody that box made. But where was he?

  Then his eyes flew open and he looked around, panicked. Where was he? Faces came into focus, and he saw Cheikh pulling at Papis. He remembered.

  When your enemy falters, or is tangled in the reeds, it is your time to act. Strike now! The resounding thunder of his father’s voice rocked his body. The words swooped into Mor’s ears with the rush of an ocean wave. And as if echoing his baay’s command, the wind rumbled through the paths. It sent sand hurtling off the ground like a mob of attacking bees.

  Mor tried to squeeze his fingers into balls, but the energy needed to lift his hands seeped from his muscles and every pore.

  Your fists are not your mightiest weapons; your will is.

  Mor wanted to believe him, yet his arms refused to move. The ground underneath them shook as Papis’s towering frame careened toward him, most likely propelling his and Cheikh’s weight with his rage. Mor needed to find his own rage. He remembered Amina’s worry and sickness, Tima’s fear, the near loss of Jeeg, Basmah’s ruined table, and Demba’s charred gaal. He thought of his own sleepless nights, and his fingers began to ball up in the dirt. His nails dug into his palms.

  “You are mine, badola,” Papis roared. His elbow landed square in Cheikh’s chest as he tried to knock him off. But Cheikh did not moan or cower. He held tight to Papis.

  Lokho barked, clapping his teeth together, a meter from Cheikh’s leg.

  You are fierce, my son. In this forest you are not the rhinoceros that plows ahead with a mind only filled with destruction. You are a beetle by the same name, carrying almost nine hundred times your weight. You are indomitable. Capture your strength. Unleash your will. And fight.

  Mor felt the twitch of every muscle and the blood coursing through each vein. The rasp of his own breathing grew stronger. He pulled his arms in tight and blocked out the distractions of pain. He concentrated, steeling himself to move.

  You need to rise, hiss, and chatter. This is your war.

  Rolling onto his stomach, Mor felt the tearing in his side but ignored it. He had to be strong for his family. For his friends. For him, there was no other choice.

  The bucket rocked before him on the ground. Fish lay limp around it in the dirt. There was a shallow pool of water, leaves and berries left inside it. Mor hoped it would be enough. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the bucket. The water slapped against the sides. Leaves and berries clung to the wet edge. This was his chance. Cheikh blocked Papis long enough for Mor to gain ground. He had to hurry or the opportunity would be gone.

  “Cut it out, man,” Cheikh pleaded with Papis, whose fist was cocked, ready to strike. “Can’t you see he can’t take much more?”

  “What is that to me?” Papis slipped loose of Cheikh’s grasp and bulldozed straight for Mor.

  Mor was ready. Concentrating with every bone and muscle of his body, he swung the bucket forward. A wave of water arced through the air. When Papis charged, mouth open wide slinging threats, he met the wall of water full on. The water exploded against his skin, spraying everywhere. Mor closed his eyes as droplets hit his face. When he opened them again, Papis was soaked. Clumps of mushed leaves and berries clung to his cheek, then dropped to the dirt. He froze, his shoulders lifting, shocked. But he didn’t stop for long. His arm launched forward, his fingers clawing for Mor’s throat. But Mor was able to swerve out of his grasp like he did in le foot, dodging opponents. As he moved, the momentum of the bucket caused it to crash hard against Papis’s side.

  Papis stumbled back on his heels, not expecting the blow. Demba’s concoction dripped from his face. Pieces of berry and leaves shot from his mouth as he spit. Tiny flecks clung to his tongue. The ball in his throat slid down and then back up again. Mor hoped it had taken some of the tainted water with it. Papis stared at Mor. His eyes, clouds of red. He raked his shirtsleeve across them vigorously.

  Lokho raced for Papis, but Papis tripped over him, pushing him away. Lokho tucked his tail and whimpered.

  A number of the village children leaned in, staring.

  Mor couldn’t stop now. He was sure Papis wasn’t done. “Heat will burn your eyes worse than a thousand grains of salt. Flames will rise in your throat and shoot through your belly.” Mor didn’t know where he was finding the words, but he was. A glimmer of him and his father acting out stories for his family rippled through his thoughts.

  “Yo
u won’t be talking so tough when I reach you,” Papis sneered, righting himself. He blinked rapidly, squinting.

  Mor was sure everyone and everything was a blur around him. Papis yanked the arm of one of the children watching. The girl screamed, scratching at Papis’s fingers. Papis threw her to the ground when he realized it wasn’t Mor.

  The kids moved back and forth like the tide, depending on where Papis stumbled or swung. Mor made sure to stay out of his reach as well. He also avoided Diallo, who stood at the edge of the mash of kids, focus targeted on Mor. His eyes locked to Mor’s movements. He had not raised a finger to help his fellow Danka Boy.

  Then, without warning, Papis doubled over and clutched his stomach, moaning. He pulled at his shirt.

  All the children gasped.

  Then the sky cried. Large splotches of rain assaulted the bright day. Darkened blots multiplied around them, until the rain fell in a heavy sheet. The water made everything hard to see. Wiping frantically at his eyes, Mor kept his head trained on Papis, in case he surged forward under the cover of rain.

  Papis swayed.

  “The sky has opened, spitting on your venom,” Mor said, using the sun-shower as his prop. “You cannot conquer me when I have the sun, wind, and rain on my side. You are not that strong.” Mor swallowed down the blood in his throat. The flesh on the inside of his cheek had ripped open.

  A wave of whispers rippled around him from the growing crowd. Although the ones in the front wanted to take a cautious step away, the latecomers pressed at their shoulders, pushing them forward. The looks on everyone’s faces began to change as they watched Mor. Some grew clouded by doubt, many by surprise, and others lifted in pure enjoyment.

  “Stop your childish ramblings.” Papis wheezed and tromped forward. “You can do nothing to me,” he blustered. However, he didn’t sound as menacing as Mor knew he could be. When Papis tried to stand upright, his head dropped and he crouched over again, grasping at his stomach. The crowd sucked in a collective breath, pointing. Rain washed over their faces and drenched their clothes. Papis squared his shoulders. Even though his arms still clutched his middle, Mor knew he was determined not to lose.

  He barreled forward, like a charging water buffalo on attack.

  At first Papis’s feet sloshed across the mud. Then his shoulders drooped and his breathing became raspy. It no longer seemed as if he had the strength to reach Mor at full force. Mor hoped the concoction was taking full effect as he easily sidestepped Papis’s advance, sending Papis careening into the outstretched palms of the gawking children.

  “Get offa me,” he yelled, pushing against the arms in the crowd. He slobbered as he spoke. A mixture of rain and saliva glopped onto his words.

  When he turned to face Mor, every muscle connecting his forehead, cheeks, and mouth was scrunched taut. He staggered forward like a drunk after too many cans of La Gazelle. His feet lost traction in the fast-forming mud, and his legs splayed out like those of a baby giraffe leaning down to a watering hole.

  He scrambled to his feet again, but Mor could see the fight had left him. He was in pain. He glanced at Mor, eyes filled with rage, frustration, and something else. Could it be a speck of fear? Mor doubted it, but as he took a step forward, Papis took a half step back. No one else might have noticed, but Mor did. He kept his eyes trained on Papis just in case he was wrong.

  The crowd even seemed to sense Papis had lost some of his fight. A small boy in a long, dirt-painted shirt dared to reach for one of the motionless fish. But Papis snapped, groaning. Still selfish, he yanked the tainted fish from the little boy’s hands, shoving him. The boy skidded to the ground.

  “These are mine,” Papis growled.

  The boy instantly wailed, rattling the air with ear-piercing screeches. Papis ignored him, and no one else dared move to help. Papis snatched the bucket off the ground and filled it with the mud-caked fish. Torn pieces of leaf and berry lay across the ground with them. Papis did not leave a single fish behind.

  Mor hunched over and clutched his knees to steady his balance. Saliva pooling in his mouth had the taste of metal. He couldn’t believe Papis’s greed. He wanted it to all be over. Driven by thoughts of his family and friends, Mor found his last breaths of strength. “When you take from me,” he said, wiping his face of rain, “your belly will stir with safara.” Letting the image of a blaze play in his mind, he hoped Papis’s stomach would spasm with fire. “In each scale and in each chunk of meat is my curse.”

  Papis stopped and squinted at him, snarling. But when he opened his mouth to speak, a howl escaped his throat. He needed every bit of his strength to remain standing.

  Although Demba’s concoction was not meant to make Papis deathly ill, Mor knew if Papis believed Mor had the power to place a gris-gris on him, his mind would take over. A mild stomachache would become much more. Even though Papis said he did not believe Mor’s riddles, Mor knew the sheer pain might weaken him and change his mind.

  And as if the sun-shower knew it was its time to stop, the sky closed up and the last drops of rain fell.

  “Water leaves you.” Mor pointed up, thankful for all of Demba’s mutterings and the now-clear sky. “The fire will be left to burn.” Out of his nonswollen eye Mor watched Papis’s eyes widen a bit as he traipsed across the dirt, aimless. Any second he was going to topple over. Cheikh reached out to help him.

  “May ma jaam!” Papis snarled. He rotated his shoulder and Cheikh’s hand dropped. “I don’t need you,” he snapped. The last of the rain cascaded down his face, but still, tears were visible on the rims of his dark-pink lids. He cradled the bucket to his chest and pushed through the crowd. He didn’t look back. Diallo chased after him, torpedoing a wad of spit at Cheikh’s feet as he passed.

  Mor’s old friend halted. Rain had pressed his white T-shirt against him like a second skin. Cheikh watched the other two Danka Boys go.

  Mor didn’t notice Fatima until she rammed past the shoulders of their neighbors.

  “Brother,” she cried, hurtling toward Mor. She hugged his waist tight.

  He grimaced but hugged her back. Pain ripped through every part of his body.

  She tilted her chin up, studying his features as if she had never seen him before. “You made him cry.”

  Mor didn’t have the energy to correct her. Papis wasn’t crying because of him; he was crying because of the concoction.

  “Even in the rain I saw it,” she added as if he were going to deny it. “You’re strong.” She crushed herself against his wet T-shirt.

  You have done well, my son. The road is trampled and bloody, but you still stand.

  Relief and exhaustion suddenly pummeled him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand. He wanted to fall in the dirt and sleep, but everyone’s eyes shifted back to him when Papis disappeared around the corner, Diallo and Lokho close behind.

  Cheikh was the last to look away.

  Turning from the path Papis had taken, Cheikh watched Mor and his sister. He did not wipe away the rain that shellacked his skin. He ambled toward them, then faltered. He and Mor stared at each other. So many emotions swept past Cheikh’s eyes. Mor was sure some of them even mirrored his own. Hurt. Frustration. Hope. Worry. Then he offered Mor his arm and his body as a crutch. Mor hesitated, even though he was about to slip to the ground, carrying Fatima with him. Searching Cheikh’s face, he found that the flash of his old friend that he’d seen glimpses of since his return had pushed the other Cheikh aside. Mor clutched Cheikh’s offered hand. Sensing the support, he felt his legs buckle, and Cheikh bore most of Mor’s weight. With Fatima close at her brother’s side, Cheikh half carried, half dragged Mor through the parting crowd as the light grew golden in the late-afternoon sky.

  AMINA stood in the doorway of their barak. The door covering swung up in the breeze, hitting the backs of her legs. She remained motionless as her fingers gripped the doorframe. She stared at her brother, worry lines crowding her face. When Mor gave a weak smile, she catapulted toward him.


  “What happened to you?” she asked, staring at his face. Jeeg poked her head out the doorway too. “I was just going to call Tima back home when I heard all this commotion. Was that you? Did that boy do this to you?”

  “Mor made him cry,” Fatima giggled, all worry gone. “He was tough.” She balled up her little fists and spun around, punching.

  Cheikh eased past her and helped Mor onto the pallet when they got inside.

  Amina turned on Cheikh, just recognizing him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, surprised. “When did you get home? I knew Oumy and Naza were keeping secrets. Were you with my brother? Did you let that boy do this to him?”

  Cheikh held up his palms at the assault. “I see you haven’t changed much,” he said, smirking at her. “My sisters kept my secrets because I asked them to. You are not the only good sister around.”

  Fatima had stopped mimicking a boxing match and ducked under Cheikh’s arm, pushing between him and Amina, breaking up their staring contest. “Move,” she demanded. “I have to help my brother.” She brought over a shredded cloth and a bowl of water, half of which she spilled on the floor.

  They all turned back to Mor.

  A surge of pride skated through him as he noticed some of the kids on the path peeking through their window. He had finally done something. He had finally taken a stand. He had not given up. And although the throbbing pressure in his head kept a steady beat, he felt pretty good. His brow had split open, and drops of blood and water dripped over his lump of an eye. Fatima dabbed at it with a corner of the cloth she’d grabbed, then she pressed the material against his jaw. The pain was immediate, as if she’d punched him. It spread through his body, pounding against his temples and throat and coursing through his veins. He could feel every bruise forming and knew his body would have crumbled if he had been struck even one more time.

  “Go outside, Tima.” Amina tried to take the cloth from her sister as Mor winced.