We the boys who eat crabs and birds are the happiest in the world. We’re Kennedy, Paul, and Zoputa. We’re classmates, playmates, and talk-talk mates. We’re the catapult boys, the wasps and moths and bees of Owendi village. We’re going to the holy river to swim and fish and fetch water. We hold our jerry cans, our catapults hanging on our necks, the Y-shaped wood at the base bouncing on and off our bellies.
“Zoputa, I’ve heard you received a life-changing prophecy,” Kennedy tells me.
“Who to-told you that?” I ask, struggling to avoid talking too fast and tripping on many words, so as not to be laughed at.
“Ah-ahn, even the pigeons that perch on roofs across the village have heard the good news,” Paul says.
“Both of you are gossips,” I say. “You put your dirty mouths into everything, talking junk-junk-junk like you’re going to get paid for wagging your lips.”
“Why do you say so, Zoputa?” Paul asks me in Igbo. “Are we no longer your friends?”
“Look, my fa-father often says that one shouldn’t reveal a boil hidden in the buttocks until it ruptures itself,” I say in Igbo, too.
“No, until a curious chair ruptures the boil,” Paul says. “That’s how my father puts it.”
“The two of you are very primitive,” Kennedy says, frowning, like we’ve offended his scruples. “And please speak only English in my presence. Igbo upsets me.”
It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon. I’m barefoot, and the sand is boiling. The footpath is narrow, so Kennedy is in the front. I’m walking behind him, and Paul goes last. I wear my shorts without a shirt, and I haven’t had a bath since I received the lovely prophecy because I don’t want to wash my good luck away.
“Kennedy, you talk nonsense,” I say, kicking away an empty Coke container as we move forward. “Don’t be so cheeky about Igbo. The language shouldn’t offend you because a bastard boy like you doesn’t have the customary right to be offended. Where’s your father?”
“Is he dead?” Paul asks. “I’ve never seen him.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Kennedy says. “I’ve not asked Mummy.”
Paul coughs. “Hasn’t your mummy shown you any of his pictures?”
“Is she hiding him from you?” I ask.
“How would I know?” Kennedy says. “Mummy has never talked about him.”
Kennedy is neat and well-dressed, as always. He wears leather sandals, black trousers, and a long-sleeved shirt striped green and yellow. His hair is perfectly cut, with a side parting. He’s an only child. His mother is one of the teachers at Owendi Primary School, where I just graduated from. She teaches Primary One every year. Session after session, other teachers move to higher classes, but she’s been stuck in Primary One, like it’s a curse. I don’t know whether or not she’s got a husband. According to Mama, some women with certificates don’t think they need husbands.
I hate the way Kennedy’s mother conducts herself. In school, she always washes her hands as if the white chalk is too dirty for her to use, as if she has taught in city schools where magic boards are used. Even Mama complains that Kennedy’s mother behaves as if other women in this village are below her knees. I don’t think she could pass for a city woman. She’s educated, and I do not doubt that. But Mama often says those who find themselves among dirty pigs should also behave like dirty pigs.
“Kennedy, ask your mother about your fa-father,” I say.
“Is it necessary?” he asks.
“Yes, of course,” Paul says.
Kennedy shrugs. “Why?”
“He’ll send you pocket money and clothes,” Paul contends.
“Thank you, but Mummy does those things and even more for me,” Kennedy says, making as if he hates to step on the ground, like perhaps if dust touches his feet he’ll need to see a doctor.
Nevertheless, I’ve always been fond of Kennedy. He has read every copy of Mills and Boon he can find. He pores over his dictionary, memorising big-big words. He eats noodles all the time, food Mama says is for children whose mothers are so lazy that they can’t cook proper food. He brushes his teeth with a fine toothbrush and takes his bath three times a day. I’ve never used a toothbrush. I snap a branch off a sapling from time to time, just to scratch my teeth. I thank our ancestors that my white smile hasn’t decayed. I wouldn’t want anybody to laugh at my stained teeth.
Our classmates say Kennedy is tender, like a girl. He drinks milk and eats eggs and NASCO cornflakes every day, his mother’s idea of a balanced diet, which I crave like babies crave breastmilk.
“I don’t know if I’d ever survive without my father,” I say.
“My father is the best,” Paul says.
“What do you mean?” I ask him. “Is it your father who smokes carton after carton of Benson & Hedges, like he’s a leaking tailpipe? He can’t be the best father in this village.”
“What about your father who destroys his wretched life with toxic beers?” Paul says.
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Cave boys,” Kennedy says. “I don’t know why I find myself in your midst. I can’t deal with you louts and filthy peasants.”
“Get lost,” Paul tells him. “Who asked for your opinion?”
“Kennedy, go away chop-chop,” I say. “You’re as stupid as a billy goat that tries to climb on top of a nanny goat without first parting his lips to ask for her permission.”
Papa once said the same thing to a Christian pastor who barged into our shrine to preach the Bible to us, and I quite liked the quote. I’ve preserved it inside my head, the way Mama lovingly preserves her ogiri soup condiment with salt, and I say the quote from time to time.
Paul bursts out laughing. “Kennedy, ngwa, defend yourself. Zoputa has thrown such nasty words at your head.”
But Kennedy says nothing, and I imagine he’s now chosen to ignore Paul, who has never bothered, as Kennedy does, about his appearance. I wouldn’t be surprised. Kennedy has that streak in him, and I know he’s inherited it from his mother. In truth, Paul is always tatty. Although my shorts are patched in places, even I do better than him at washing my clothes and cutting my nails and brushing my teeth. His mouth reeks, as rancid as rotten milk and a pit latrine put together. I don’t know when he last visited a barber. Barefoot like me, he wears blue shorts with holes in the buttocks. I can see the soot and smoke and dust that the fabric cannot hide. His stomach is rotund and taut, like he swallowed a volleyball. He has pus-tipped rashes on his skin. I fear he’ll infect me when we get to the holy river to swim together, although our villagers say the river can wash out and cure all skin diseases.
“So, Zoputa, why have you dodged our prophecy question?” Paul asks me. “Is it a hoax or false news?”
I sigh and say, “To kill your curiosity, the prophecy predicts that I’ll soon be travelling to a megacity where I don’t need sunshine to dry my laundry.”
Kennedy screams, turning around, “What a senseless prophecy! Don’t you want to go to school anymore?”
We stop walking and face one another.
“Kennedy, it’s just a prediction from the Chief Priest of the holy river,” I say. “But who has school helped in this village? Please, I want to become a megacity millionaire soon.”
Paul’s throat moves as he swallows his saliva, which I imagine contains millions of infectious bacteria. “Pots of money,” he calls me. “Udu ego.”
“Yes, that’s me,” I say, beating my chest, and burst out laughing.
“I want to become an accountant,” Kennedy says, starry-eyed.
“That’s good,” I say. “When I become a millionaire, I’ll put your big head in my posh office to count my millions of dollars and naira.”
“Awful, why should I stoop so low?” Kennedy snaps, frowning. His eyelids tremble like it’s embarrassing for him to work for me, the CEO with pots of money.
I chuckle. “One of our teachers once told us during a career talk that accountants press computers and punch calculators to ensure the accuracy of the money they don’t own. Is that what you want to do, Kennedy, be a poor accountant?”
He shrugs, saying nothing.
“Besides, accountants are annoying and stingy,” Paul says. “My aunt is one. She can’t even buy lipstick for her chapped lips.”
“I’m not surprised about your choice, Kennedy,” I say. “Children who are dressed well by their parents often become poor adults.”
He sighs. “Maybe I should study something else? I’ll ask Mummy.”
“Why don’t you become a doctor instead?” I ask.
“No, I hate to see blood,” he says, shaking his head and glaring at me.
“I want to become a fearless lawyer,” Paul says. “There’s a member of our kindred who always bullies my father, threatening to seize our land. When I become a lawyer, I’ll imprison all my father’s enemies. I swear to God.”
Looking at his fierce face, I become even more earnest about my megacity prophecy. I feel like forcing it to come true now, picking up my bag and leaving right away. Land isn’t my problem because we have many acres that don’t fetch Papa and Mama anything. The acres keep breeding birds and bees and bamboo every year. If owning land were my dream, I would achieve it this year, even right now.
Kennedy suddenly smiles as if he produces honey in his mouth. “My friends, I’m excited to announce that I got into Dennis Memorial Grammar School.”
“Amazing, congratulations,” I say.
“Christ The King College accepted me, up CKC,” Paul says, raising his thumb, the smelly future attorney.
“Congratulajoys,” I say. “Brilliant, you both!”
“What about you?” Kennedy asks me.
I sigh. “Well, I made it into The People’s College, but my father can’t afford the fees. So if the prophecy comes true, I’ll travel to the megacity and become a millionaire, a wealthy vagabond.”
It’s what I always call myself, a vagabond. I don’t care what it means. I love how it sounds like a bond that binds the stones from my catapult to the vaga-vaga flapping of wings of boubous, hawks, nzas, kites, ospreys, okwas, buteos, kestrels, and buzzards; all of which are the beautiful birds of Owendi village.
“Most megacities are vagabonds themselves,” Kennedy says. “They’re the strangers’ sanctuaries that accept all sorts of vagrants like you.”
“As if I care,” I say.
He bursts out laughing – at himself, I think – and tears gush out of his eyes. He does this every time he laughs hard. What he said doesn’t seem quite as funny to me, and I can’t dig up what amuses him. He pulls out an immaculate handkerchief and wipes his eyes. I’ve never used a handkerchief. He’s such a self-conscious boy whose mother, I was told, bought scented diapers and wrapped them around his waist when he was a toddler. She even potty-trained him. I can’t imagine Mama doing this to any of my little siblings, having watched them pee and poo like the goats and chickens in our compound for many years.
By the footpath there’s a small anthill. Paul kicks it, scattering a large section. Thousands of ants scamper around, suddenly finding themselves without a home. They’re as black as their tormentor’s unkempt hair, and just as upset for they come straight towards my feet, no doubt mad enough to bite anything biteable. I shift away. It saddens me to see them searching for a place to hide. I imagine what homelessness feels like, what it would mean to have everything I’ve achieved thrown apart like that: my dream job, my dream car, my dream wife, my dream house, my dream megacity. I hope nothing will kick the megacity prophecy away.
Kennedy is the first to walk away from the ants. I follow. Paul comes behind me. We have nearly reached the holy river even though we’re not sure if the water will still be clean at this time of day. Kennedy looks tired and sashays like a girl, like his legs are filled with sacks of stones. The sun is a huge fire burning in the sky. We carry on nonetheless, because we know what our catapults can do along the way. Besides, I’ll rush into the bush near the river to fetch aromatic uziza leaves for Mama. She’ll prepare soup with them. She says uziza soup can ward off the dreams that always make me yell in my sleep.
Since the megacity prophecy came, I’ve found it difficult to close my eyes at night. When my back is settled on my raffia-mat to sleep, I count the pots of money I may acquire from the megacity, and I scream. I often dream about mosquitoes flinging javelins at me, cockroaches shooting me with pistols, geckos throwing me bombs, spiders spraying me acid from their cobwebs on our thatched roof, and a ten-headed python chasing me. And then I wake up with a start and cringe and squeal with horror, sweating. I’ve heard that other people have nightmares, but what I often have is povertymare and prophecymare and megacitymare.
*
We come across an old man, Pa Egechi, the Chief Priest of the holy river. He’s also a powerful herbalist who cures severe illnesses with incantations, tree bark, and roots. He’s the fortune teller who has prophesied my potential journey to the megacity. He holds his walking stick as usual, and this time he carries an earthenware pot of water on his head. His white hair is like a crown, an emblem that shows he’s seen both the sweet and bitter sides of the village over the years. As old as he is, he doesn’t look slovenly. His white T-shirt, although creased in many places, is as neat as the loincloth around his waist, covering his private parts. I take his wrinkled face as proof of the many dry harmattan seasons he has survived. He’s hunched, ambling towards us, as if counting his footsteps.
I know his house and his manners. I also know his children’s children. They all live in America, in a city they call Philosophia, or is it Philadelphia? I can’t tell which. Sometimes, saying the names of American cities is like chewing gravel and butter together. His children’s children return home with their parents every Christmas. They add “fucking” to everything they say. America has a fucking president. This shirt is fucking fit for church. This village food tastes so fucking great. Everybody in this village is so fucking kind. Oh, oh, my Jesus fucking Christ!
I’ve since concluded that “fucking” goes with anything that is excellent. So I use it now to address my loving parents – my fucking papa and my fucking mama – as well as my personal god. Because this god has been good to me. Because he’s brought me the megacity prophecy. Because this is an American way to worship an African god. Thank you, my fucking god!
I’m ready to help Pa Egechi in whatever way I can. He has outlived his age-mates. His shrine is a white mansion, unlike Papa’s, which is a mud hut with a thatched roof that keeps leaking, no matter how many times Mama patches it. Pa Egechi has a huge tank filled with the previous year’s rainwater. But he must use the water from the holy river to soak his herbs because of the river goddess of medicine. Her water can cure diseases. It’s a taboo to fetch the river and throw it away. That would be like saying the goddess is avoidable and worthless.
“Ndewo,” we chorus, greeting Pa Egechi.
“My children,” he replies. “You won’t bury your own children, and your children won’t bury you unless your knees are tired and weak from ageing.”
“Daalụ,” we chorus again, thanking him.
I’d love to be wrinkled and hunched and ambling and long-lasting like him. I can spot my future on his face, a future in the megacity where I’m as old as he is, and my grandchildren gather around my knees and massage them. If I respect the old man, I’m sure to be alive until death begs me to die.
I imagine he knows what Papa teaches me, what every elder in the village craves in a child. Papa teaches that when a child helps an old man or woman, the gods and goddesses of Owendi village will bless the child with a smart catapult that can kill mighty birds. The child will grow up and thrive and rule and reap and reign and win and win.
So I decide to assist the old man. I ask Kennedy to hold my jerry can. He looks surprised but takes it anyway, gaping. Paul is taken aback as well. I’m sure he can do what I intend to do, but he may not be as swift as I am. For Kennedy to volunteer, we’d have to give him paracetamol afterwards because he’s so delicate.
“Pa, give me your water pot, and let me take it to your house,” I tell the old man.
“Wonderful, so Owendi village still has good seedlings growing from its soil,” he says, looking surprised and squinting at me.
“Yes, Pa,” I say, smiling.
I reach out to collect the pot from his head, and he lets me.
“Please handle it like an egg to avoid the wrath of the water goddess,” he warns me.
I flinch but still yearn for his blessing. “Alright, Pa. I’ll be careful.”
He places his right hand on my forehead, praying, “My son, all forms of evil will go blind whenever they see you. Your hands will find wealth in everything they touch.”
“So let it be, Pa. Thank you very much,” I say, nodding and smiling, suffused with blessed joy. I turn to Kennedy and Paul. “Boys, I’ll be back in a breeze. Wait for me at the river. Please remember to fill up our jerry cans first before you swim.”
Kennedy frowns. Apparently he’s unhappy, and I don’t know why. I carry the pot on my head and picture the old man’s house. It’s not too far from mine. I turn around, take the first step, and scuttle away, wanting to be as rapid as a bicycle. The old man is making his own way slowly, separately. I turn left and follow the narrow path that opens before me, striding along the warm red earth for about fifteen minutes. I turn right. Another slope of a red path sprawls ahead. On both sides of me, there are saplings and poplars. They’re silent and eerie and spindly and green. Dragonflies chase after dragonflies. Butterflies flirt on fresh petals. Sparrows and woodpeckers peck at red palm nuts, some of which have dropped on the ground where stained mushrooms have struggled to survive the harsh harmattan season. A yellow-tailed lizard tumbles from a large iroko tree and slams its stomach fiercely on the ground, mangling the dry spear grasses with a spurt of dust. The lizard nods twice. On seeing me and hearing my footsteps, it scampers away.
I’m moving on, charging forward like a lion. I’m going and going and going. I am. I am. I want to dance because the old man has blessed me, so I break into a luck song that Papa always sings. Mama sings it, too. Singing makes me forget my legs are at work, that there’s an earthenware pot on my head, that my hands are holding the pot so that it doesn’t fall. I’m lightheaded when I sing. I rejoice when I sing. I clap when I sing. I dance when I sing. I even sing in my sleep.
Thank you, my fucking god.
Please give me plenty of money.
Please give me good children.
Please don’t give me children and deny me money.
Otherwise, my children will grow up and refuse to bear my name.
I repeat this song, dancing and clapping and turning around. I’m dizzy now, but I don’t mind. So I break into a trot like a well-fed squirrel. I swing my hips this way and that. I start spinning again, my hands now on my hips. Suddenly, I trip and fall flat on the ground.
Now, the old man’s earthenware pot has smashed to pieces and pieces and pieces!
Shocked, I lie silent. Am I dreaming this? As I watch in horror, the water flows on the ground, washes dust off the nearest grass, and wets my legs. I look at my knees. They’re already bruised and bleeding, startled urine soaking my shorts. My tears are warm, creeping down my cheeks. I’m frozen and can’t even breathe properly, thick mucus blocking my nasal passage. Confused, I glare up at the sky. It’s empty, like someone took a wiper and cleared the clouds.
I’m sure the river goddess will make me go mad for wasting her water. It’s better to kill myself here before she wrings me like a cloth and tosses me aside, even before Pa Egechi finds out and curses me, too. He’s capable of slamming me with madness or epilepsy. These afflictions terrify me too much. Kennedy and Paul will laugh at me. If I run to the market square, naked and crazy like a lunatic, Pa Egechi might take the prophecy from me and instead give it to Paul, who aspires to become a millionaire, too. He hasn’t said so, but I can smell it, can clearly see it in his eyes. I don’t want to be alive to see these heartbreaking events occur.
I hoist myself and search for a rope. I check around the foot of the palm trees, under the dry iroko leaves, and on the ochre hillocks. I spot a red rope lying on a slab of dry crabgrass. It seems a shepherd has left the rope there. I’ll consider myself lucky if I can kill myself now before the old man curses me. I want to die where my corpse will be found with ease, so as not to punish my beloved fucking parents with two forms of heartbreak. The heartbreak from death. The heartbreak from a missing dead body. By the footpath, there’s a medium-sized mango tree. It looks perfect to die on, so I climb up. I tie the rope to a branch I feel can carry my weight without snapping. My neck takes its own share of the rope. I’m about to jump down and end my life when I hear Pa Egechi’s ringing voice as he screams, “My son, my son, don’t do that!”
I look down, sobbing. “If I don’t, the river goddess will damage me beyond repair.”
“Nothing will happen to you. I control the goddess, telling her what to do or not do, so don’t be afraid.”
“What d-do you mean?”
“Don’t waste your life because of a miserable clay pot. It was meant to be broken anyway. But our ancestors and deities have used you to break it.”
I still can’t figure out what he means. “I’m s-sorry, Pa.”
“There’s no problem whatsoever.” He stares at his palms, left and right, as if there’s a wrestling match showing there. “Our ancestors have just set two of my patients free because of what you’ve just done. I can see my patients through my palms. A man who’s been suffering from elephantiasis and another with epilepsy, both living at my shrine, have now been cured. My son, those afflictions were broken as soon as you broke the clay pot. You’re a god-helper.”
I want to ask and understand more, but some questions are taller than the sky, like the answers will smash the head to pieces when they fall down.
“I’m very sorry, Pa.” There’s nothing else I can say.
“That’s enough,” he says. “Be strong like your father, Amadi, the tireless gravedigger who helps to send our dead people to our ancestors.”
My heart feels a little light, but my full joy is still far away. I wait for the old man to leave, but he continues talking.
“You’re a good boy,” he says, still looking up at me. “I’ve already prophesied that you’ll become a special example to your age-mates.”
He picks up a broken piece of the pot and starts ambling home. I lift the red rope from around my neck, still scared stiff. When I see he’s gone far, I slide down the mango tree and start running to the river, still furious with myself.
*
When I arrive at the river, many mothers stoop on the sandy riverbank washing their clothes inside buckets. I spot Paul’s holed blue shorts as he swims in the river alongside a lot of young boys and adults. Kennedy is sitting on a boulder; his legs are splayed in front of him. He ignores me and frowns, looking away. He shields his eyes from the sun, placing his hand over his forehead. In my view the river sparkles, but it might not meet his hygiene standards. I don’t expect him to swim. So finicky, he probably can’t bring himself to share the river with children who suffer from rashes and ringworm and eczema and dandruff, children whose balanced diet is starch in the morning, noon and night, children who sometimes eat nothing.
I touch our jerry cans, which sit beside Kennedy, to make sure they’re filled with water, and I shake my head, worried, because they’re not.
“Kennedy, our containers are still empty.”
He frowns like he’s a brilliant teacher and I’m a terrible student.
“Am I your servant?” he asks.
“I mean you and Paul.”
“Are we your butlers?”
“What d-do you mean?”
“You fawned over Pa Egechi and he blessed only you, so go and fill your own jerry can. You’re such an idiot, a disgusting stutterer!”
I, Chizoputa, an idiot? How? Why? Where? When? I feel deeply stabbed and disturbed now but still control my temper.
“What are you even saying, Kennedy?”
“You can’t order me around.”
“Stop t-talking to me like that. What ha-have I done to you?”
“You’re so bossy and stupid, Zoputa Amadi,” he says, striding towards me. He pokes his finger into my chest. “You’re such a moron dreaming about the megacity and modern living. Oh, really? That doesn’t make you any superior to me. Now look at me very well. You’ll never be richer than I will be. Never!”
“The megacity is a mere forecast, Kennedy. It hasn’t come true yet. Why does it annoy you, grinding your heart to ashes, shrinking your blood and bones?”
“Get lost,” he snaps.
“I should get lost?”
“Yes, exactly!”
I could never allow a little tadpole who can’t survive in the river to disgrace me. He’s even dragged my precious father into his insult. I can’t stomach that. But let me give Kennedy a chance to take back his words.
“Kennedy, if you’re sure of your power, poke your finger into my chest again.”
“Dunce, what would you do?”
“Poke me again and find out.”
Everyone on this side of the river has become alert now, watching us, but nobody has come closer yet. Even those swimming are now silent, looking up at us both.
“Zoputa Amadi, you’re such a piece of stinking garbage,” he says, jabbing his powerful fist into my chest and hurting my ribs badly.
“So you dare?” I scream. “What has come o-over you?”
Frowning, I step back, like I want to gather some energy waiting behind me. I then leap forward and kick his legs, sweeping him off the ground. As his head hits a jerry can with a loud thud, I hammer two strong fists on his forehead and temple, then another one on his stomach. I thump his cheeks left and right as he lies flat on the ground. He’s already bleeding from his nostrils and forehead.
His mouth goes like, “Mummy, come and save me now. Mummy, he’s going to kill me here.”
I grab a handful of sand mixed with tiny stones and force it into his mouth. He spits out everything on my face, spattering his spit on my neck and chest. I serve him another handful and slap him hard!
“Take that, Kennedy,” I say, huffing and puffing.
Instead of separating us, the people jostle around to watch. A few of them whip out their phones to record the fight. I overhear someone urging us to battle on. Only Paul is trying to drag me away, but I refuse to allow him. Kennedy is losing his breath now, and his eyes have turned blood red. He moans, wrinkling his face. I’m sitting on his stomach, pinning him to the ground, and bouncing on him. If I wish, I could uproot his spotless teeth one after the other and force him to swallow each one like paracetamol. I could jab my angry fists into his chest and rattle his bitchy heart.
He then cries out. “That’s enough, Zoputa.”
“No, it’s not.” I’m now clutching his neck tight. “You dared me.”
“I beg you in the name of God,” he says.
I sigh, easing my grip.
“Killing you is like breaking an egg,” I say.
He wriggles like a worm under me, coughing, his eyes tear-soaked. “You’ve wounded me and torn my brand-new shirt.”
I let go of his neck, yielding readily to Paul who pulls me up. It’s such a relief. He’s saved me from becoming a murderer. Kennedy lies quiet for some moments, his eyes shut. I stand still, quivering, and imagine he’s passed out. When he staggers to his feet, I sigh loudly. He begins to preen himself like a mother hen, beating dust off his clothes.
A woman comes to assist him, patting his back and shoulders, and saying, “You’re the son of a teacher who mollycoddles you, feeding you on pricey proteins and minerals. You’re such a special child. How dare you lower your dignity to fight the son of a poor gravedigger? Don’t try that next time. Do you hear me?” Kennedy nods, still whimpering. “Stop crying, please. It’s very shameful for a boy to cry.”
His tears soak his chest as if a monsoon has broken loose in his eyes. Watching him now, I regret beating him and breaking his heart so severely. I approach him with a warm hug.
“Ken, please forgive me for what I’ve done,” I say, embracing him tight.
“It’s all my fault, Zoputa,” he says, sniffling, wrapping his arms around me.
“I’m very sorry, Ken.”
“Zoputa, there’s no problem.”
Paul and I dive into the river, spinning our arms, and gently flapping our legs. I lie on my back and kick my legs. I swing my arms backwards, propelling my body forward and forward and forward.
*Photo by Peinge Nakale on Unsplash