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.

Wading through the river felt like walking in a room filled with bouncy balls. I teetered as my feet struggled to maintain anchorage on the slippery river bed. My bones quaked in fear as slimy scales brushed against my legs in a flurry of aquatic excitement. I took a quick glance at Bola, who wobbled about like a spinning top losing momentum. We needed to get quite deep into the river, so our buckets could be full in on dip.

I felt calm, taking in the unadulterated beauty of the wilderness. Where there would be mud and brick houses back in the village, there were tall, majestic trees. All around me, sounds of the wild came to life, with birds singing sweet melodies. Unfortunately, Bola’s squeal brought me back to reality. It was then I realised that there might be less friendly creatures in this river than fish who just want to play hide-and-seek with your legs.

I turned sharply to Bola and followed his eyes. A massive ten-foot brownish-black crocodile with jagged scales swam insidiously in our direction. Its reptilian eyes bobbed from the water surface, and the vertical slits on both eyes widened in focus of its prey. Immediately, I grabbed Bola’s arm and scampered towards the bank as the colossal creature gave chase, widening its enormous maws of death.

By all means, being crocodile chew was not how I wanted my first trip out of the village square to end. I ran with all my might, carrying a flailing Bola on my shoulder, as I risked a glance at the predator that was swiftly closing the distance. On reaching the riverbank, I heaved Bola a few feet forward, assuring his safety. I proceeded to transition from water to land when I just heard a loud SNAP! behind me. My leg had narrowly missed dismemberment. For the rest of the chase, I didn’t dare look behind me as I headed homeward; although, I doubt the creature had even followed us.

We arrived at the village square, buckets empty and clothes dripping, to the horror of our annoyed yet confused parents. They had assumed we went to have a quick dip in the river, and that we completely forgot all about our task the second we left the village. They went on to scold us for not carrying out the errand, punishing us with no dinner for the night. Unbeknownst to them, Bola and I had decided to make our escapade a secret, and deep within, we knew this was going to be the first of many.