Playing Home

Just as we had climbed up and down the pass of Gwavachemai range, we tiptoed back to the dirt road that linked the village and our school. There were five boys and one boy in our home group, home because we walked together always, to and from school. On this day, were walking home later than usual, because it had been Garden Day. The oldest among us was nine, I was seven or eight, and the other two were around eight. And we were walking, the distance between us and the school we had left behind increasing; we walked or played, but half the time, sometimes all the time, walking home was some form of playing, but if we played for too long on the way home, we would be too late arriving, and we knew what would happen after we arrived. At some point in our playing home we would just speed up and concentrate on walking and less playing to arrive home before anyone noticed we were late. But this one day I am about to tell you about, this one day that comes crushing down like a big rock from nowhere, was different, so different that even the act of remembering it is daunting but worth every groan...

We had hoes. Garden day at school, so hoes and big cans to carry water from the school dam. The school general garden, the one classes took turns to water and weed. Garden day, tool day, but no one had told us that tools and war were foes. Until this day when my group was walking--sorry, playing--home.