“What should we do?” Okeny asked.
“Let’s go swimming,” I replied.
We all headed to the stream — Wang Ayii — our usual place for
swimming. Between us stood a large yat lam, the tree that separates
the girls’ side from the boys’. Sometimes, when the season allows, we meet at a
point farther along the river. The girls of different ages often sing their
favourite songs as they swim or wash clothes. Others intentionally bring their
laundry just to be part of the fun. As the sun tilts toward evening, the
younger girls return home, while the older ones stay or come to bathe.
Laker would always arrive with her collection of utensils. She came with two
friends and her young sister, whose presence could ease any tense moment. Laker
was carefully watched because of her beauty and virtue. No girl could match her
humility. She worked like a bee, and every village boy admired her — I was no
exception. She was my greatest desire, but when would I ever meet her? That
question lingered in my heart.
She stooped to wash, but a tree trunk stubbornly blocked my view. Across the
river stood Yat Yaa, its branches stretching toward us. We often
climbed it with ease. I must see her — yes, those pointed breasts everyone
whispers about. Laker shone when she smiled; her teeth were whiter than milk.
Why shouldn’t I touch her if I could not take her home? Yet Laker, in her
innocence, did not know how deeply I longed for her.
I pushed myself across the river. Facing her, I saw her clearly. She was
breathtaking — her beauty pierced my heart. The beads around her waist stirred
my veins; her belly moved softly, like Moo Yaa.
“Laker,” I whispered within me, “when will you visit my bed? I am shy, but I
love you. Your name weighs heavier than a king’s. Give me a chance to dance
with you—the Larakaraka, the Lotole, and the Bwola
await us at Loti.”
“Listen, my queen,” I murmured softly, “the warriors of Got Lotti
long to hear your gentle voice. Leave Magwi, those men with frog-like
sounds — unromantic and careless in love. Listen, Nyanker — a quarter
of my kingdom is yours. That is my promise to your dear Maa and Baa.
Who among the men — Anani, Acelam, Ocan, or Jokam — can match
such a vow? They are good at promising but poor at living it.”
Laker smiled. I went silent. She looked at me intently, and still, I said
nothing. She bent again to wash. I lifted my hand toward the sky. It seemed to
stretch and lengthen, reaching out like a branch of Yat Olwedo. With
the other hand, I held onto Yat Yaa. The reaching hand crept toward
her—only a touch, I thought, if I cannot take her home. “Just one touch,” I
pleaded silently.
But the hand’s foolish movement brushed against the beads around her waist.
Startled, Laker struck it with the Akwaya she was holding. The pain
was sharp — I bled.
“Nyanker, I love you,” I groaned softly. “Marry me, please.”
Abunerry, Ayella
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