Travels Of A Thinker

The sound of water thundering down the dam echoed in the far off distance. Much closer, the quiet slaps of the river against its banks and the occasional splash as particularly active fish practiced their water sports competed with the chirps and croaks of those creatures whose home we invaded. She stifled a laugh, my sister, and her excitement slid down her limbs in the humidity and embraced the reeds. “Shh ah! Mummy will catch us.” We stood on the raised bank, my brother, my sister and I, and watched the river moving silently in the night like a beautiful silver and black scarf draped between the hills. It was the first time I saw the Volta.
The silver and black scarf of the night was a mass of indeterminable greens and browns in the daytime. The chirping, croaking choir of the night before had made way for the twittering birds and countless buzzing flies and mosquitoes. The fish were more subdued, maybe because of the presence of canoes on the water, oars breaking the surface and the soft swish of nets, cast and settling. I was more subdued, definitely because of the ear scathing rebuke we had received for our nighttime escapades. Yes, Mummy caught us.
The splash of oars drew closer. “Buy fish? Tilapia, fresh one.” A boy of no more than twelve held up a bunch of strung together fish. He smiled at my mother, his grin trying to communicate what his words could not. Francis. His name was Francis. He brought the canoe out this morning while his father went to Mass. He did not know why he was not in school. All this he told us, as he bailed water out of his rapidly filling canoe with one hand and held his fish up with the other. My mother gave him money and took the fish, because to give the money without taking his wares would be charity, and charity would be an insult. As he maneuvered his canoe towards the next sale, he turned and waved at us. It was the first time I saw the Volta.
We three, my brother, my sister and I sat in the bucket of our truck as we drove back to Accra, nibbling on shrimps bought from the street hawkers. We laughed and joked around, our mother’s watchful eyes on us all the while. As the afternoon sun calmed its fury, and the skies began their transformation to evening, we looked at the river, running by our side in the distance. That beautiful silver and black and green and gold scarf draped between the hills. It was the first time I saw the Volta.