Choked by such a life, I craved to step out of it
the way you escape a smoky shebeen into the street to breathe
some fresh air. Beside my mates, my other paradise was among high hills, which was the coolest
place in the whole world, my own Eden
in Arabia Felix
where a small river slipped through it, with just a whisper sweet enough to soothe
us into a siesta; and the occasional cadence of the kingfisher or a cackle of a
duck was just about the lonesome hum that ever broke in upon the uniform harmony.
The river enveloped my vulnerability and offered a refuge when floating
along the coarse current of village life became unbearable. It
was a breeze blowing away my fears; fanning my spirited sails
deeper to the sea of courage.
Under the drifting waters of this river, I descended
into the inner chamber of my mind and spent most of my me-time, refreshing,
recreating myself when the happenings around me dragged intolerably. From this
mental bubble I could see the world outside yet secured from any kind of its
pointless breach. It was the only place I truly felt free from the tyranny of my
father and his elders.
Here alongside my
mates, we were ‘young and reckless’ again and under some invisible oath, accepted
ourselves as such. Swimming naked, our clothes tucked away, from the hands of
the proverbial village madmen who ran away in them. They were nowhere in sight of course, but still,
the sweltering heat, might make imaginary madmen muse: ‘this hit can make one go banks.’ This
river of contradiction! This lifeline of the village!
This was the scene
of an incident on my fourteenth birthday—another annual reminder of the uncomfortable
union—while we were cooling off the swathing afternoon heat. We marked my birth
solemnly to honour it with its pains,
pleasures and puzzles. Mukhwana
and Mulongo, the twins, were also my comrades-in-suffering since their mother
died while giving birth to them, and then they were supposed to undertake an
‘antidote’ ritual cleansing from traditions that required one of them be killed
to avert an Oedipal patricide—even if their father died later of ‘natural
causes’! Of course, nature took its course and as the salmon, the twins’
birthday was also their mother’s death anniversary!
As a rule, we prefer never
to suffer for a worthless cause; but survive creatively, siring something superior.
We never bear in our backs the burden of meaninglessness, but instead make
merry of time and its erratic tides—what every growing boy deserved—noticing
girls or expecting to be noticed, sharpening our swimming skills, diving under
fallen tree stumps and maneuvering through death-defying underwater logs. Our
Peeping Tom, Lokassa, filled us with ideas from his stolen sights of bathing
young girls and their breasts, hips and thighs. He snoops with James Bond
antics; sneaking downstream where he spends ‘moments of quality time’ with ‘Wire
Waist’.
When the cows had
quenched their thirst and were grazing lazily along the banks, Mulongo led the
way, diving and coming out after every few frog leaps. He held the record for
staying the longest in the deep. His sibling had the pissing game title; I was
the diving king, and Bolingo spear fishing champ. We were curious to peep at
the bathing lasses and their twin towers of beauty. Sutra Nyako and Putra Konya
especially were just beginning to form, and were ‘fecund like mangoes just
before they ripe’ according to our lead spy Lokassa. Abandoned by their Indian
father, they were the most beautiful pair of identical twins in the village and
had attracted all wanted and unwanted attention.
While
the lasses were busy looking for stinging stream insects to bite their shy breasts
and enlarge them, and while the other lads still played infantile boyish games to
see who could pee the farthest, I was busy weaning myself by sharing knowledge
with those who were already versed in the mysteries of the heart. I had set my
eyes on Sutra not only because of her stunning beauty and charm, but also her
adamant refusal to court other lads. Under Mukhwana’s tutelage, I had broken
many a damsel’s solid resolutions—except hers.
You
see, most of our village girls were loose and easy to get, as most plain girls did
(might as well face it), to make up in bed for what they lacked in looks. While
these girls squandered their plain brands being fondled and tossed sideways by
every hand, Sutra (and her sister) was shyly blossoming into fresh and charming
spinster constantly under the watch of her matriarch grandmother, like a rose sheltered
and surrounded by guardian thorns.
Our submarine spymaster
led us underwater until a few metres away from the wary but unsuspecting
lasses. The undergrowth on the bank concealed our submerged faces well enough to
steal stealthy peeps. I had a 3D view from my vantage spot and saw more butts
than a baboon in a day. My cholesterol level rose when my eyes met Sutra’s body.
I exploded with ecstasy as my eyes swept leisurely over her body. Her nakedness was so exquisite that I might as
well have been watching the canyons and contours of planet Mars at close range.
She stood in the
makeshift launch pad for a moment—a panoramic vista—opposite me pausing to take
the plunge. I was strongly engrossed by her dazzling sight in spite of myself. If
blindness were the fee for looking, I would have paid fivefold—including my
mind’s eye into the bargain! Her waist-beads fastened her firm and rounded figure-eight
and the beadwork so beautifully painted with red henna, the tint of a baboon’s
butt. Her rosebud breasts pointed playfully up and down to rhyme her hesitant movement.
These twin towers of her chest, like the description of the peep-master Tom,
were truly rounded domes of mellow mangoes—just before they are ripe!
When she finally
dove into the pool after greedily feasting my eyes upon such magnificent expanses,
my heart jumped, as they say, into my mouth, and my gracious vision was now how
to win the warmth of this superior daughter of Eve.
In my endeavor,
however, I would meet more barriers than the shining heroes of old who rarely
had anything but legendary dragons or such like gullible ogres against them. To
rescue their lady confined in colossal castles, the knight fought his way, a
map in hand, conquered creepy creatures in the evil forest and sneaked through walls
erected by jealous stepmothers—avoiding a poisoned cup of tea—and voila, the Don
Quixote swept off the feet of the anxious princess in waiting.
My path to the heart
of Sutra, this village queen worth her weight in gold, was plagued by kinky cock
blockers who were forever conniving new obstacles; a path compounded by a cloud
of copious competitors and admirers alike fraught with anxiety for her divided attention,
but ever vigilant and prepared to fight it out to win her heart.
Suddenly the wary girls noticed our intrusions and instinctively covered
their youthful nudity with their hands, clothing, leaves and anything they
could find, while others dove underwater. It was an impasse as we were
reluctant to go away in spite of their shooshings. We had even forgotten we too
were naked! The cheek of it! This was an open air bathroom with naked bodies exactly resembling all other naked bodies, what
were they ashamed of? Didn’t the nudist campers have scruples too? Why hide from
plain sight a ‘thing’ (original as it is) that existed in similar photocopies? Why
wrap a towel around your body when you were alone in a room? This was the
madness that ran away with our sane clothes. In our small worlds, shame was as
vague as original sin.
But as we discovered,
this happy Araby the Blest also slithered the sinister snake of disobedience.
Before, they were clad in cloaks of cleanliness and knew no evil. But then our
intrusion violated their virgin souls and tore off the garment of their
ugliness, and they resorted to the leaves to cover their embarrassment.
Putra, the more
serious of the pair threw pebbles at us and we retreated to follow the Garden
example and cover our own shame.
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