“Okay, that is enough, Tima,” Tanta Coumba whispered, pulling Fatima closer to her side. “Your bàjjan is a woman who needs much time to think.”
“But she still hasn’t said yes and she’s been thinking all summer.” Fatima pouted.
“Yes, Auntie, Mor has tried so hard,” Amina spoke up, a rock doll in her hand. Everyone turned to her. “He has done everything a brother should do and more. Iéna’s would still be a dream if he hadn’t made it real. Even when I was hard on him, he never stopped trying for me. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see our home is here? Can’t you see how much we want to stay? Please do not be the reason we cannot. We don’t want to be separated. We are better together.”
No one took a breath as their bàjjan shifted uncomfortably on her seat. She stared at Amina as if she were seeing her for the first time.
“W-whe . . . well . . . ,” she sputtered, undoubtedly feeling the heat of all their focus.
“And if we get sick,” Fatima butted in, “Demba can save us.”
Tanta Coumba hugged her close, kissing the top of Fatima’s head.
“I still don’t know.” Their aunt smoothed out the folds in her boubou. Then her eyes found Mor. “This is too great a responsibility for you.”
“It’s a responsibility I want,” Mor said, standing taller. “This is where Baay and Yaay are.”
“But the daara would teach you to be a pious man. Many wise leaders have found their way from there.”
“And many children have gotten lost at some too,” Cheikh added. He stood above everyone except Demba. “Bàjjan, I know you want what is best for them. It won’t be at a daara and it won’t be cleaning a stranger’s floors. It will be here. Amina’s mind is like the ocean, you cannot see to its end, and Mor’s heart is like the rising sun, bright and shining.” He pointed down to the marks on Jeeg’s hide. “Just like their yaay and baay. Do not lock away those things for them. They should be here with us. I will share the responsibility with my brother.” He nodded to Mor. “Even though I am older, he has taught me how to never turn away from a true friend. We’ll look out for each other, together.” He swept his hand over his friends and family. “Please let us.”
“Those are kind words,” Dieynaba said. “But there is a large world out there that they should see. And it could start in Dakar.”
“And we will see it in time, Incha’Allah.” Mor moved closer to his aunt. “But for now our life is meant to be here. Our friends and our family are—”
“I am your family,” she reminded him.
“And you will always be.” He glanced at his sisters.
Amina stepped next to him and placed a rock doll in their bàjjan’s palm. It looked so much like their aunt that she let out a small gasp when she saw it. The doll wore a similar boubou and mousore to the ones she had arrived in.
Mor didn’t believe it could ever happen, but as he watched, he saw his aunt softening, as if a shell were cracking.
“It’s you, Auntie,” Fatima squealed. “It’s you!”
“I see, child. I see.” She pressed her hands around the doll as if in prayer. “I am not yet sure this is the right thing.”
“Please, Bàjjan,” Mor urged. “Give us a chance to do more. Do not make us go.” He knelt in front of her, clasping his hands. “I need my sisters and they need me.”
“You act as if you are being torn apart.”
“But that is how it would feel,” Mor said. “How it would be.”
Their aunt blew out. “I don’t think it is as serious as all that.” She looked to Tanta Coumba for agreement. Tanta Coumba only shrugged.
“It is,” Mor added. “I am better when I am with them. Please let us stay.”
Their bàjjan searched everyone’s faces, and everyone searched hers.
“An unclenched fist will let the pithis fly.” Demba stared up at the sky, his back to the group as though he hadn’t been listening.
Their aunt gave the slightest nod of understanding. Then she sighed. “This is still not settled within me, but I would be a villain if I tore you away when you speak so. You have my blessing. You can remain.”
Fatima was the first to react, shrieking. She threw her arms around Tanta Coumba and then leaped away, skipping in circles with Oumy. Jeeg, who’d been chewing plastic under a table, bleated, “Meh-mehhh,” and went to push against Fatima’s back, joining them.
Mor stared at his extended family. He would never have dared believe it would all work out.
When your heart is open, it will continue to fill.
He gasped and stood very still. As everyone else moved about, wrapped in the excitement of the news, he closed his eyes and listened.
When your mind is open, you will experience the wonder of possibility.
His yaay’s voice was no heavier than a breath. And smoother than a butterfly’s wing. He had to hold his own breath to hear it. Then a faint silhouette of his baay as he remembered him, wearing his sky-blue tunic and pants, came into view. Mor rushed forward, reaching out, but only grasped salted air. When you search for opportunity, his baay offered, it will find you. Remember this, my son.
“I will, Baay. I will,” Mor said as his family’s laughter filled the beach behind him.
We are proud of all you have accomplished. You have kept your promise well and fulfilled so much more.
Mor smiled as his father’s spirit flickered like a flame in front of him.
You are equipped for this journey now.
But remember, his yaay said faintly. He searched the sky for her image. You can always find us in here. Her hand appeared then, shimmering like the sun on speckled sand, and then her arm and the rest of her slowly materialized like sugar when it first falls into a glass of tea. He touched his chest over his heart, where she touched him, filling him with heat.
Yes, that is where we will always be, his father assured him.
Tears welled in Mor’s eyes, but he was not sad. Although he knew it was good-bye, he knew it was not forever. For he would always be with them and them with him.
“Mor,” Amina called from the table. “We are ready to eat.”
After one last look at his parents, memorizing the curve of his yaay’s cheek and each sprig of stubble on his baay’s chin, he turned to his sister and his family around him. And he knew they were his home.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I started writing this book, and created the fictional villages of Lat Mata and Mahktar, I was uncertain of where Mor’s journey would lead me. And although this is a story purely of fiction, I wanted to make sure it was based in some reality. I hope all readers, and especially those unfamiliar with Senegal, the land of teranga (hospitality), will gain a better understanding of some of its many charms, as well as some of its struggles.
I wanted to showcase not only the importance of things like fish, a staple in most Senegalese homes, and the power of superstitions and gris-gris, but also the hardships of some talibés (tah-LEE-bays).
Even though my story does not center on the plight of the talibé, a word that means “disciple” or “follower” in Arabic, I wanted to show how the experiences of some of these children could play a profound role in their lives and the community at large.
Every time I go to Senegal, and the capital city of Dakar, especially, I am struck by the number of young boys who swarm the streets with empty tomato cans or plastic yellow bowls begging for alms. Talibés are mainly boys and come from both rich and poor families, but many are from rural villages, sent by parents who are often unaware of the hardships their children might face in the city. They send their sons and (some) daughters to be educated and cared for at a religious school known as a daara, under the tutelage of an Islamic teacher, or serigne. Although many of the serignes who instruct the children in the teachings and memorization of the Koran are fair and pious, and want to instill humility in their pupils, there are some, like the one Papis and Cheikh encountered, who unfortunately exploit the children for their own gains.
> In 2010, the international aid group Human Rights Watch estimated that some fifty thousand children begging on the streets of Senegal were students of these daaras. Sadly, many of these neglected children live in deplorable conditions, usually cramped in unsanitary shacks with twenty to thirty other boys, sometimes for many years. Some are even beaten if they do not return to the serigne after a day of begging with a certain amount of food or money. Memorizing the Koran should normally take two to three years, but because the students are sent to beg for most of the day, they are away from their families sometimes as long as eight years.
Talibés are an accepted norm in Senegalese culture, and many prominent leaders in the country were brought up in this tradition. It is a complicated subject because the beliefs behind these practices are heavily tied to religion, an integral part of the society. In recent years, however, leaders are beginning to take action. During the summer of 2016, President Macky Sall ordered that all street children be returned to their families or placed in transit centers. Although this will not end all the troubles these young people face, it is a definite step in the right direction.
Through writing about Senegal and the talibé, my hope is that I will spark an interest in others to learn more about this beautiful country and the grace, richness, and dignity of her people.
—Leah Henderson
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
When I first looked out a car window in Saint-Louis, Senegal, and saw a boy sitting on a beach wall and whispered to myself, “What story would you tell me?”, I never imagined that the ten-page story I scribbled in my journal would ever go farther than my grad-school professor’s inbox. But regardless of my uncertainty about telling this story, my professor Louella Bryant saw something in Mor’s journey that I didn’t yet see. Ellie, thank you for encouraging me to keep giving you “just a few more pages of Mor.” Luke Wallin, Rachel Harper, and Crystal Wilkinson, thank you for teaching me about craft so that I could tell this story. And to the amazing MFA staff at Spalding University (Katy, Kathleen, Karen, and Sena), I will always be appreciative of the warmth and encouragement you have shown me from the first moment I met each of you.
Babs, thank you for sharing your enormous heart and for pushing open a window so I could see and breathe the true beauty of Senegal.
To the Gueye family, from our first meeting in the courtyard of your home, I instantly felt as if I were with family. My love for you cannot be measured.
Grandma, I will always hear you saying: “Waaw waaw. Namm naa la.” And I miss you too.
Mom and Dad, the words “thank you” will never be enough to express my gratitude for your endless and unconditional love and support. In every way, you told me I could do this. And when I was frustrated, thank you for reminding me that this book is for the kids who don’t often see themselves front and center on the page and not to give up. I am honored and blessed each and every day to call myself your daughter.
Moe, since the days of making sure I had the biggest toys in my crib and the best haircut, you have always looked out for me, and I am forever grateful. Derick, just having you push up your glasses and ask, “How’s it going, sis?” always leaves me with a smile and lets me know you care. You are the best big brothers a little sister could ever wish for. And it is because of you both that Mor knows how to be an amazing big brother too.
Assa Diaw, thank you so much for agreeing to be an early beta reader. You will never know how much it meant when you wrote that reading my manuscript “feels like a warm chocolate cake dessert for [your] soul; almost like a slice of home.” Dr. Babacar Dieng of Gaston Berger University, Saint-Louis, thanks so much for taking the time to review sections of my early drafts and for answering all of the many questions I sent your way time and time again.
I would also like to express a heartfelt thank-you to Rubin Pfeffer for believing in Mor’s story and to Melissa Nasson for your thoughts on making it better. John Jay Cabuay, you have given Mor a beautiful coat to greet the world in. Thank you.
And to my wonderful editors: Jessica Sit, thank you for your excitement about this project and for bringing me into the Atheneum/Simon & Schuster family, and Alexa Pastor, thank you for your patience and your guidance. And Erica Stahler, I am in awe of your keen eye. It has been a pleasure working with each of you.
Michelle Edwards, Frank Eposito, docents (Paula Hirschoff, Detra Robinson, Theresa Steverlynck) of the Smithsonian National Museum of Africa Arts, along with Mr. Diaw and Nicole Dewing, I appreciate your quick responses to all of my many queries.
Daning Koite, the day I called the Senegalese Embassy in need of help was a day I made a true friend. Thank you for everything, especially your laugh. Tanaz Bhathena and Papa Sangoné Sene, I am beyond grateful to both of you for taking the time to read through One Shadow on the Wall and for all of your comments and thoughts on how to make it a stronger work. Adama Coulibaly, I have always considered you a brother, and I appreciate you never tiring of me asking you an endless stream of questions, no matter how repetitive or random, and no matter the hour. Your kindness will never be forgotten.
And to my kiddies at ACFA orphanage in Bamako, Mali. Although you are across the border from Senegal, the hope and fire I saw in each of you after only a few short months at ACFA greatly informed how I wanted Mor and his sisters to be. My love for you was poured into every inch of Mor, Amina, and Tima. Remember you are always in my heart!
And to Boston, my best buddy. A girl couldn’t ask for a better friend to take long walks with, play soccer with, and talk to when humans just couldn’t understand.
So many people have had a hand in making this book a reality, but none more than Lesléa Newman, my friend and mentor and Mor’s greatest cheerleader. I will never be able to say thank you enough for all the love and support you have shown Mor and me over the years. You are a beautiful, (leopard-print-wrapped) brilliance.
It has truly taken a mighty village to get here.
Jërëjëf, everyone!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LEAH HENDERSON has always loved getting lost in stories. When she is not scribbling down her characters’ adventures, she is off on her own, exploring new spaces and places around the world. Many of the hopes, struggles, and traditions witnessed on her travels find a home in her work, hopefully offering added color and new perspectives to her characters’ lives.
Leah received her MFA in Writing from Spalding University and currently calls the Washington, DC, area home. You can visit her at leahhendersonbooks.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Leah Henderson
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