Tonye Alalibo

Creative Writing

The midsummer pre-twilight sun hung low in the sky, tainting the clouds with a mixed hue of pink and brimstone. Our parents had sent us on our first errand to fetch water from the river, which was a ways away from the village, deep into the main part of the forest. We saw this as an opportunity for adventure since we’ve never left our little village in Ondo. It was the 1960s in southern Nigeria, and leaving our grove had been our quest ever since the bossy white people left. Mother says we are supposed to have obtained “sovereignty” and “freedom” now that they’re gone, but nothing felt free about cooping us at home, occasionally allowing us to work at the farmlands. We wanted to venture deep into the forest like the mature men do, and finally, we were presumed old enough to have a chance at it. This didn’t include Bola though; he was still a bumbling ten-year old who couldn’t even hold a machete straight. He was only allowed to go because I would be with him, showing him the ropes like a big bro would.