STAR SHORT STORY CONTEST
Scott Williams tells the tale of a young boy with a big secret,
There is a little line of pink, just at the horizon, when I first open my eyes. It peeks in at me through a small gap between the wall and the cloth covering the doorway, and I peek back. Mwashibukeni, I say to the sun, smiling and yawning at the same time. “Good morning!”
My name is Wilson, and I am 10 years old. My job is to fetch water.
I put on my shoes and leave the house quietly. There is a washstand around the corner, next to the open kitchen, and I go there to wash my face, then I use the toilet over behind Mwanzila’s house. There is a toilet behind our house too, but it is smelly and slippery and I don’t like it.
I pick up the pails for today’s water and get ready for my walk. Sometimes I take just one, and carrying one is easy, but today I am also fetching for my mother’s friend, Mrs. Nkwazi, so I need to carry two and use the wooden yoke. After I’ve grown a bit more, and my shoulders are wider, the yoke will fit better; for now it’s awkward and it hurts a little, but it’s better than carrying the pails by hand. And anyway, I like fetching for Mrs. Nkwazi because she has no husband or children, and she needs my help.
By now the sun is almost up. If I leave early enough, I can get to the well in Kikundi and home again while it is still morning. On school days, or days when we have mission church, I have to go later and the heat makes it very hard. “Today will be better,” I say to myself, as I attach the pails to the yoke and position the yoke on my shoulders, shrugging to get it to sit more comfortably.
The cattleman says when I carry the yoke and the pails I sound like one of his cows with her bell, and that makes me laugh, but right now I’m trying hard to keep quiet. I don’t want to wake anyone else in our compound, though already I hear sounds from the other houses. Mwanzila might already be awake, but I don’t see her.
The sun is coming up as I leave. I walk slowly past the other houses and try not to sound like the cow with her bell. But soon I am out of earshot and can walk faster and it’s okay to sing, which makes the time go more quickly. I count the songs while I sing and have sung seven, and repeated the one about the crows eating the corn because I like it best, when I come to the hill that I will go around to find the big path. This is where I usually see the cattleman. There is a baobab on the other side of the hill, and he sits under it, watching his cows. He isn’t there every day, but when I round the hill this morning my heart lifts as I see him, sitting under his tree, leaning against the broad, grey trunk.
Mwapoleni shikulu, I say respectfully, “Hello grandfather.” He nods to me, which means I can sit down, so I take off the yoke, almost dropping both of my pails in the process, and making a lot of noise. He shakes his head. “The cow with her bell,” he says, but I smile because I know he is only teasing me.
“No, shikulu,” I say, “It is the sound of men working.” Now it’s my turn to tease, because I am the one fetching water, and he is just sitting under a tree. The cattleman snorts, and before I sit I shake his hand to show there are no hard feelings. His skin is soft and warm and leathery, but his grip isn’t as strong as it sometimes is.
The cattleman is alone today, as he is whenever I see him. I don’t know his wife, and his sons have all gone away. One day I asked him why they left but he would only say: Indalama. “Money.”
“Where have they gone?” I ask him today. “Did they go to Chongwe?” He doesn’t answer. “My brother Daniel has gone to Chongwe. He went there to make money for us, just like your sons. Do you think your sons will see Daniel in Chongwe?” The cattleman doesn’t say anything so I think maybe he doesn’t know, and I decide not to ask him anything more.
We sit quietly together, watching the cattle, him with his old eyes and me with my young ones, and the sun climbs higher in the sky. Mailo, I say. “I will see you tomorrow.” The cattleman shrugs. Mailo limbi, he says, “Perhaps tomorrow.” But then he smiles at me, as if he really is my grandfather, and I am happy as I pick up my yoke and my pails. Just before the big path takes me out of sight, I turn and wave. He doesn’t wave back, but maybe he can’t see me from so far away. I wonder if I should rattle my pails, but I decide against it, and turn again and carry on my way.
It is mid-morning when I reach the well at Kikundi. There are several people ahead of me, and many more milling about, talking and gossiping. I recognize most of the them, including a girl about my age who I see there most days. Usually she stands to one side, away from the crowd, but today she is right beside the well, watching me as I wait my turn. When my pails are filled I have trouble getting them back on my yoke, and I see the girl smiling, amused at my struggle, and when I notice her smiling I get confused and I almost spill all the water I came to fetch. A woman my mother’s age quickly steps in to help, making a disapproving sound with her tongue and waving off the girl who turns away, now embarrassed. But as I walk away, settling the now heavy yoke on my shoulders, the girl comes up behind me and walks along with me.
“I’ve seen you before,” she says, and I nod. “I see you most days. You always come on your own.”
“Because my brother is in Chongwe,” I tell her.
“I have many brothers,” she says. “They carry all our water, but I could help carry yours.”
I don’t reply, but I put down my yoke and my pails. She rearranges the cloth dukhuon her head, creating a little fabric ring that will help her balance the pail that she picks up. I carry the other in one hand and balance the empty yoke on my other shoulder. It’s a bit awkward but I tell her how much easier it is, and this time when she smiles I don’t feel confused at all.
Without the weight of the pails, the metal rings at the ends of the yoke make a clanging sound. “It sounds like a bell,” she says, so I tell her about the cattleman and how he teases me. She laughs, so I laugh too.
She tells me her name is Grace and asks me where I live. I tell her that I live near Mpanga. “But before we go there I have to stop to see Mrs. Nkwazi.” I explain that she is my mother’s friend, and that some of this water is for her.
“Why don’t you have a well in Mpanga?” she asks. “Kikundi is too far to walk every day.” I tell her that we do have a well, but I don’t tell her about the older boys that hang around it. I don’t tell her that Daniel used to come with me, before he left to make money for us, or that he threatened the boys one day after they threw stones at me. I just tell her that the water is better from the well in Kikundi.
“It’s true, our water is good,” she says, and when she says that I realize that with the heat of the day and the dust from the path, she is probably thirsty. I ask her if she would like to stop for a drink, but she says no, that we should go on to see Mrs. Nkwazi, and in truth I know it isn’t much farther. A few minutes later a small compound of three or four houses appears a short way off the path.
Mwapoleni mama, I call to the tall, stately woman cooking nshima in the outdoor kitchen of the first house. “Good morning, Mrs. Nkwazi.”
“Good morning, Wilson,” she replies, coming over to us, and then, smiling at Grace, she asks, “Who is your helper this morning?” I introduce them and we set down our pails of water. I carry one over to her kitchen, climbing on a stool and emptying the contents into the drum, replacing the lid carefully to keep out dirt and the everywhere-pests Mrs. Nkwazi complains about.
“Sit down for some tea,” she says, and then asks me if we would like something to eat. She knows the answer, but she is kind and always asks. We sit with her and she gives us each a small plate of nshima with some cooked chicken. She asks Grace many questions, like the teachers at school do. I have known Mrs. Nkwazi my whole life, but I don’t talk with her the way Grace does: answering all her questions and then carrying on, telling her many things that she didn’t even ask about. Mrs. Nkwazi nods and smiles, encouraging, and occasionally even laughs. I feel proud as I sit quietly, listening to the two of them.
As we prepare to leave, Mrs. Nkwazi gives me some food to take home, and then hands me a small flower — bright red and very beautiful. “This is for my sister,” she says, and I nod, knowing that she means my mother.
“Go straight, now, and be careful” she says. “Watch the too-hot sun.” I clasp her hand briefly and then turn to go, Grace beside me, the remaining full pail on her head, and the yoke across my shoulders with the empty pail dangling from one end.
It’s not far now to my home on the other side of Mpanga. When we’re still a little way from the houses of the village, we come upon a large enclosure marked by short stone walls, about a stone’s throw off to the right of the path. There is an enormous jacaranda tree in one corner, its blossoms a deep lavender as we near the end of the dry season. We put down our pails and yoke, and I walk to the opposite corner of the enclosure, stopping in front of a small pile of stones. Grace follows, stopping beside me and watching as I put the flower from Mrs. Nkwazi on the ground at the base of the pile.
“That flower was for your mother,” Grace protests.
“Yes,” I answer. The stones were originally in the shape of a cross, placed there by the donna from the mission church, but I have gathered them together, preferring the shape of the little mound I have created. I tend to them now, placing and replacing the ones that have tumbled. Grace retreats to the shade of the jacaranda, and soon afterwards I join her, sitting on the ground beside her.
“Are you going to cry now?” she asks, but I shake my head. “No,” I say. “Not now.”
We don’t say anything more, and after a few minutes we gather up our pails and the yoke and continue on our way in silence, past the houses in Mpanga, until we get to the compound where my house is. We pass Mwanzila’s house, and the next one is mine.
My house is small but very solid, made of mud brick, and is about 10 feet square, with a door in the middle, and a thatched roof that I work hard to keep so that it doesn’t leak. A small open kitchen is to the side of the house and in the kitchen is a table made of dark wood that my mother got from her mother. Beside the table is a large drum, raised from the floor, that sits on a plastic crate. Putting aside the yoke and my empty pail, I take the full one from Grace, and pour the water into the drum.
“I can make tea,” I offer, but Grace says no.
She pulls aside the cloth that covers the doorway of my house and pokes her head inside.
“Where is everybody?” she asks, but I don’t reply. My mother is in the graveyard and Daniel has gone to Chongwe. “You are alone?” she asks, and I nod. “Please,” I say, and I beg her not to tell anyone. Mwanzila and the others in my compound know, but the teachers at school and the donna from the mission church all think Daniel is still with me.
Grace stands looking at me, hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side. After considering a moment she looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.
“I will see you next time at the well,” she says. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
Mailo limbi, I agree. “Perhaps tomorrow.”