The Cow’s Horn

    Where’d you say he’s from again, Alfie? Singapore or something?” Andrew asks. 

    “Senegal,” I say, taking off my backpack and letting it crash to the floor.

    “Where’s that, India?”

    “Africa,” I say, trying not to laugh. 

    Mamadou has been living with my family for eight months already. And my best friend, Andrew, still can’t remember where he comes from. All that matters to Andrew is that Mamadou is a great soccer player. Mamadou could be from Jupiter and Andrew probably wouldn’t remember. 

    “Right,” Andrew says, giving his lock a last turn. He steps back as his locker opens with a pop. It’s crammed with muddy cleats and lost homework. “Now I remember. He’s from the capital. It’s called Cairo or something, right?” 

    Sometimes I worry that there’s a soccer ball where Andrew’s brain is supposed to be.  

    I step over and take him by the shoulders. “We’ve been through this a hundred times!” I say. “Mamadou is from Dakar! The capital of Senegal! On the continent of Africa! On a planet called Earth!” 

    Andrew slams his locker and raises his eyebrows at me. “Cool,” he says. “So what time should my mom drop me off at the soccer field?”

    There are many things I’d rather do after school than practice soccer. If I had my way, I’d finish my latest model rocket—a Beta-series sidewinder. It’s put together and sanded smooth. All that’s left is the paint job. Then it’s ready to blast off on Saturday, when my rocket club meets at the beach. 

    But I keep reminding myself that I have no time for my rockets. Soccer tryouts are Friday afternoon, and nothing is more important. Every seventh-grader in Cape Breeze wants a spot on the travel soccer team. 

    Mamadou has the week off from college. He’s offered to help my friends and me practice. Mamadou is a soccer genius. Pete and Andrew would kill me if I turned him down. 

    I don’t usually see much of Mamadou during the week. But if I wake up early enough, I can hear him on the phone downstairs. He’s always talking to his mother in Senegal. He speaks to her in Wolof—a strange and beautiful language that tickles my ears. 

    Usually, Mamadou is so busy with school that the only sign of him is the bright boubou that hangs by his bed. I’ve never seen him put the robe on—normally he wears jeans and T-shirts like I do. But I think he likes to see it when he wakes up in the morning. His mother gave it to him before he came to America for college.

    I’m pretty sure Mamadou’s offer to help us with soccer was my dad’s idea. My dad has been my soccer coach since kindergarten, and his dream is to see me play on the travel team. Over the past few weekends, he’s been leaving work early to help me with my drills. 

    The travel team practices four days a week after school. It also has games on Saturdays and Sundays. If I make the team, I won’t be able to go to rocket club. “It will be a great experience,” my dad promises.

    I want to say, “For who?”

    “OK! Alfie! You run yourself over there. Peter, you stand on the other side of the field. I want Andrew to dribble the ball, like so.” 

    Mamadou runs down the field as fast as a gazelle. He dribbles smoothly and kicks the ball into the center of the goal. “Like so,” he says softly. 

    The afternoon is wet and chilly. Pete and Andrew peel off their jackets and are shiny with sweat. I keep up with them for the first hour and a half. But then I offer to play goalie so I can catch my breath. I stay there until my mother picks us up in our powder-blue minivan.

    We return to the field each day after school. Mamadou is always waiting for us—a tall, young man with black skin standing in the middle of a pure green field. 

    “Are you ready?” he calls, smiling at us. 

    “Yes!” Andrew and Pete shout as they run toward him. 

    I run along with them, trying to get excited. But hard as I try, I can’t get my mind on the field. It’s somewhere in the sky—powered by a rocket motor.

    It’s Friday morning: tryout day. Mamadou is waiting for me at the kitchen table when I come down for breakfast. My mom and dad have already left for work. 

    “You look tired,” Mamadou says. He’s right, and I feel guilty about it. Dad told me to get to bed early. But when I closed my eyes, I could almost hear my rocket calling to me. Before I knew it, I was at my desk. “I stayed up late painting the pinstripes on my rocket,” I say. 

    Mamadou doesn’t look surprised. “Did I ever tell you about the cow’s horn?” he asks.

    I think for a moment. Mamadou has told me so many stories about life in Senegal. He has told me about playing soccer in streets filled with goats and pigs. He has told me about his hardworking mother and the fresh chicken stew she always made him for dinner. 

    “At my school in Dakar, there were many rules. The most important rule was that we could not speak Wolof. Only French. They said Wolof was an old language that would be of no use to us,” says Mamadou. “To help us remember this rule, there was a cow’s horn. Each morning, the teacher gave the cow’s horn to one student. If that student heard anyone speaking Wolof, he handed that person the cow’s horn. At the end of the day, the last student holding the cow’s horn was punished.” 

    “What was the punishment?” I ask.

    “You stayed after school and swept the classrooms. It was two hours of work.” 

    “For speaking Wolof? That’s not fair!” I say. “Did you ever end up with the cow’s horn?”

    “All the time,” Mamadou laughs. “No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop speaking Wolof. It’s what came naturally to me.” 

    “So every day you had to stay? Didn’t you get mad?” I ask.

    “At first I did,” Mamadou says. “But then something happened. I got so good at sweeping that I finished in just one hour. One of my teachers was happy to spend the next hour helping me with my schoolwork. Algebra. French. Chemistry. Slowly, my work improved until I was getting the best grades. All my friends pitied me because I couldn’t stop speaking Wolof. But it was because of Wolof that I got the cow’s horn. And it was because of the cow’s horn that I got the scholarship to attend college in America. That cow’s horn brought me here to follow my dreams.” 

    He rises from his chair and smiles at me. Then he heads upstairs to his room to study.

    At tryouts, 65 boys are competing for 15 spots on the travel soccer team. There are five coaches—tall, serious men with whistles and stopwatches hanging from their necks. I play as hard and fast as I can.

    I don’t score any goals, but I do kick the ball down the field on defense. That’s when I hear my dad yell: “Way to go, Alfie! Keep it up!” His booming voice hits me like a punch in the stomach. After that, I can barely keep up. When the final whistle blows, I want to fall into the muddy grass and go to sleep. 

    “What happened to you?” Pete says as we make our way to the sidelines. 

    “Don’t know,” I say. I look over at my dad. He’s staring at the sky.

    I know I didn’t make the team even before Pete calls me on Saturday afternoon. “Andrew and I are on!” he says. 

    “I didn’t get a call,” I tell him. I have to try to sound a little sad.

    Those who made the team were called by 2:00 that day. At 2:05, my dad knocks on my door. “Sorry, Alfie,” he says softly. “You feel like hitting some baseballs?” 

    “I lost my mitt,” I say. “Plus I’m pretty worn-out.”

    “All right then,” Dad says. He pauses for a moment and looks at my rocket perched on its stand in the corner of the room. 

    “Nice,” he says. Then he closes the door.

    I wonder how I’m going to face Andrew and Pete. When will I get to see them? They’ll be too busy to hang out after school. And all they’ll want to talk about is soccer. 

    I skip rocket club that day. But the next morning, I pack up my rocket and ride my bike to the beach. It feels great to be outside without wearing my soccer cleats. 

    My rocket blasts off perfectly, straight up into the clouds. I squint into the bright sunny sky and wait. Seconds later, I see it coming down. The parachute pops open and the rocket floats slowly through the air.

    Finally, it lands softly in the sand. 

    When I come home, there’s a package on my bed. It’s a box wrapped in bright blue paper. Has Dad bought me a new mitt? 

    I pick it up and realize it’s way too heavy to be a mitt. And then I know it’s from Mamadou. Somehow I know what it is and what it means. I rip open the paper and lift the lid off the old shoebox. I smile.

    Mamadou has given me a cow’s horn.