Children of the River

They sit on plush couches and sip tea. They toil in the land of opportunity and the fruit of their labor is  nestled in between the lines of a white, crisp, check. They are miles away from home--decades away from the life they knew as children. They bore calluses but they also bubbled with laughter.

 Years ago in a small quaint village, the cackle of a rooster would split through the sky and wake the children up  for school. Water was fetched from the stream. Sometimes it was fresh from the rainfall the night before. Palm kernel oil would make their skin glisten in the sun. Even if their feet were dust-coated at least their lips would not be cracked.

 The compound had to be swept smooth so that the broom--- twigs tied together with a rubber strap, left thin lines in the sand. That was how you could tell that it had been freshly swept. That, and the arch of a bent back. They would stuff their pockets with garri, and sometimes termites--creatures that were chased for fun, but fried for food. That was what they scarfed down, as they ran--bare footed, toward the school building many miles away.  The late student would be caned--his back stinging from the strokes. The jagged wooden chairs would only make things worse.

Meanwhile the teacher would be dressed in his teacher uniform--suspenders, shorts, wide-rimmed glasses, and a dress shirt. He was one of the most respected people in the village. The teacher would call, and the students would respond with proud grins. They were grateful to be counted among the educated--among those who could scribble with chalk on wooden slates and  recite their multiplication tables with perfection.

Homework was done under sunlight--or coveted lantern light. Weekend nights were spent basking in the earth's shower, or making holes in the sand with stones--seeing who could make the most holes at once.

Food was never wasted. It was served, and within minutes it was gone, as everyone descended on it.

The rhythm of the pestle thumping against the mortar would bounce off of the kitchen's mud brick walls as  one of the children prepared dinner for the whole family.  It was just another one of those sounds that rose from deep within the belly of the town. Just like the sound of feet grazing the ground as women rose dust at the village square--the symphony of simple instruments playing in sync with the masquerade stunts.

If the child that prepared the meal wasn't careful to wipe away the sweat forming beads on his brow, it would  roll down the sides of his face, seep into his eyes, and sting. His shrieks would echo from the smoke-filled room.

The moon was clearly visible--lighting up the darkened sky. It was the backdrop for late night folktales and black-laced mourning ceremonies.

My grandfather only had one bicycle. Often, the youngest child never had a chance to ride it.  Riding the bike was better than having to walk to the farm, or the stream, or school. It was prized by my grandfather, and if someone ever ran off with it, his feet would always manage to outrun the bike wheels.

In all of its tranquility, there was something peculiar about the country fields. Strange  creatures lurked in the shadows. No one sent a child alone on an errand at night, or that child would not return. You would not see their bodies being dragged into darkness. You would only hear the screams. You would only hear the splashing water and breaking buckets. These creatures had a blinding light in their eyes. Once a glimpse of that light was caught from miles away, anyone who had been daring enough to go outside and ease himself would quickly retreat back into his cot.
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As my father steers his sleek blue truck on soft,tarred, first-world roads, a smile forms on his face as he remembers the day he was finally allowed to ride his father's bicycle.

The children of the river will never forget their home. They broke off pieces of it to bring with them to the new world. In homage, they continue to tell stories under the moon, as their fathers had done.