Under the Watermelon Trees.

Rules. Guidelines to retain order, deter chaos, or whatever rubbish the fat cats continue to preach. Usually, I march with Baba as the horizon blooms, helping him lead the way while listening to his many folktales. But today, I keep my distance, dragging my endless limbs through the rows of legumes that fill East Falaki. A long time ago, before the Tafi war, Falaki stood as one. A peaceful and undogmatic land inhabited by all manner of people; free to live, just as our forefathers had imagined.

Freely we lived until the cone-headed people, a sea of bastards, devised a plan to seize Falaki and rule it, desperate to bury the sting of their own rejection. From the valleys they came, while the sun slept, taking it by force, slaughtering thousands of Falaki people. It was they, with the heavy shining metals hanging from their necks, who carved Falaki into pieces. A slap in the face to our forefathers.

They achieved all this through peculiar statements they called rules. They pushed the poor into the South, named them the Mola tribe, and trapped them in the Sild mines. Meanwhile, they crowned themselves the Luba tribe and lived lavishly in the North. The West they gave to the water people, calling them the Mila tribe, and the East to the regular, average folk, branding us the Sude tribe. As if that weren’t enough, they stamped ink on paper, proclaiming different weekends for each region and dictated who could go where, making this the most sacred rule of all.

Baba says we should count ourselves lucky to come from the East, but my heart does not mirror his. We are allowed to travel only South and West, but the pointed-nose miners look at us with hate, even though we sympathize with them. And going West costs nothing less than a thousand ounces of Sild, an almost impossible amount to afford. To make matters worse, we are allowed to travel only on our designated weekends, but the places we dream of visiting only come alive during their weekends.

Yet, the northerners and their rules can sink into dust because today, I must break the most sacred rule of all. Today, I might imprint my very being onto future folklore. Hopefully, if the heavens allow, I will return in one piece.

“Baba! Baba! I must return home,” I shout, curling inward, holding my belly in pretense.

Baba drops his tools in an instant and rushes towards me.

“What is it, my child? The moon calls?” He asks, his rough palms rubbing my back gently.

I say nothing but nod. “Should Ade go with you?” He asks, staring my brother down as if willing him to move, but immediately I protest.

“Your Adunola is a big girl, baba, no need for a chauffeur.”

As I turn my back on Baba and Ade, I can feel the thump-thump of my heart in my chest. I move faster, glancing left and right, making sure no one is watching. But suddenly, the handle of my satchel snags on one of the branches that grow in awkward, unpredictable ways, spilling all the contents onto the sand. Goodness gracious, I mutter under my breath. If Ade were here, I’d be in serious trouble. “Is this a sign to go back? To give up on one of my many dreams?” I ask myself, but doubt does not take over me. So, I pack everything back into my bag, making sure, above all, that the pouch filled with Sild remains safe and intact.

I adjust my scarf tightly around my head, leaving only my eyes exposed, and run towards the East-Bala market that will eventually lead me to the docks. I avoid the market main road and take the back alley. It’s a must at this hour to avoid eyes that might recognize me, and worse, the Falaki sentries, always hungry for someone to toss into the slammers. I weave my way carefully, dodging potholes filled with murky water and the outstretched, grimy hands of castoffs clawing for anything to eat. Strange life, I think. The northerners have forgotten their own. After a few minutes, the East Falaki ports rise into view, and I’m nothing short of elated. Ships of every shape and size crowd the docks, their massive containers stacked like towers. Thick smoke billows from their smokestacks, and cranes loom at every corner. The hum of machinery and the shouts of port workers echo for miles.

Folu, a childhood friend and now a longshoreman, should be waiting by the warehouse docks. He promised to sneak me into the cargo hold of one of the many ships that come and go, for the small price of a pound of Sild. So much for camaraderie. I arrive at the warehouses and immediately panic, unsure which one I’m supposed to meet Folu at. I curse myself for letting excitement take over earlier, for not paying attention when he laid out the plan. But who can blame me? I’m still trying to piece our conversation back together when a wet hand grabs and shoves me, hard, into a nearby warehouse.

“Do you ever not go looking for trouble?” Folu says, his big, green eyes locking onto mine.

“Christ! You scared me,” I reply, breathless. “Sorry, I forgot the warehouse number.”

“Do you have it?” He whispers, and I hand over the pound of Sild. He stares at it, mesmerized for a moment, before motioning for me to climb into a barrel that would normally contain beans.

He rolls the barrel quickly toward the belly of the ship that will carry me to West Falaki and I hold my breath, careful not to make a sound.

“Halt,” says one of the sentries patrolling the docks, and I remain stoic.

“No funny business in there, right?” he adds, his thick accent giving him away as a sentry from the West.

“Correct,” Folu replies, but his words don’t stop the broad-shouldered man from stepping closer.

He starts toward the barrel, reaching as if to peek inside, but a fracas breaks out nearby, pulling his attention. Praise the gods, I whisper, as Folu rolls me quietly towards my dream.

It takes about two hours to reach West Falaki, where the beaches glisten under the sun and willow trees crowd the streets like watchful ghosts. It’s Wednesday, the first day of their weekend, so the streets should be alive with orange-colored people, their cheeks bearing the old Falaki marks. The ship slows to a stop, and all I can think about is the ache in my limbs and the need to be uncramped. I am on  my own now, so it’s paramount that I stay alert to avoid being caught. As soon as the hatch creaks open, I squeeze out of the barrel and slip off the ship.

I maneuver through the docks, heart pounding, searching for the exit. Once I do, I pull a map from my satchel, stolen from Baba’s study, and trace my route. Satisfied, I begin my journey. I keep my head down and walk briskly though the streets, doing my best to blend in. The beauty of the scenery brings tears to my eyes. The West Falaki grounds and people who walk them seem so much happier - so much at peace. They rank just below the northerners. I can hardly imagine what it must be like to live that way.

After about thirty minutes, I arrive. I freeze, caught in time, unable to believe what I am seeing.

I have dreamed of this moment ever since I heard one of the East Bala traders recount their time here. I move closer, the bridge of my nose brushing the glass of the store, and there it was, a square brass object, a round door in the middle, with pink foam swirling behind it.

“May our forefathers be praised,” I whisper, astonished.

They even have soap in another color! Without hesitation, I run inside the shop, A cleanatorium, they called it. I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the object, watching as the clothes tumble up and down in endless circles. It's all worth it! I have finally seen the appliance, unbelievable to my people from the East. Baba would be proud.

*****

Ade shakes Adunola by the shoulders, waking her from her sleep. She had drifted off again at the back of the mines.

“Another dream? You were shaking,” her brother says.

"Indeed,” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes, “But this time it was a successful one."

She gives Ade a brief summary of her dream. He listens without a word, his face showing nothing but pity.

“You look disappointed,” she says softly.

“So even in your dreams, you aspire to so little?”

Without waiting for her response, he turns away, returning to their daily work of digging for Sild for the cone-headed overlords.