When I was little, I loved dragonflies. I lied still by the riverbank and waited for them to land on me, and they did, on the hem of my skirt, on my hair. I was amazed by how trusting they were.
Then there were boys who chased them away, from me. I tried to turn up at the riverbank at different times of the day, so the boys could not find me. But they always did. They brought roasted peanuts and threw shells at me, sometimes cow dung. I wasn’t bothered by their ‘attack’ because I knew that’s the way boys showed interest. I was annoyed by their disturbance of my special time with the dragonflies.
One day I told my uncle that the boys threw peanut shells and cow dung at me by the riverbank. He started to take the buffalo for a wash in the river in mid mornings, and my aunties washed their clothes in the afternoons in the river.
I reunited with the dragonflies in peace and tranquillity. And that was the highlight of my summer holidays at my grandparents’ farm besides slid down the banana tree and ripped my skirt to shreds, but that is another story for another time.