The water had been off since yesterday, one Monday afternoon during our school holidays. Mom gave me an empty 20-liter container of cooking oil and a bucket. “Go to Kuomboko and draw some water,” she said.
Kuomboka was a nearby neighborhood where people with better lives and more money than us lived. As I walked down the roadside, the containers swinging from side to side, I met Christopher carrying his two empty containers on his back, tied with a necktie. “You have no water at your house too?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Let’s go together.”
Soon we were joined by other boys and girls from the neighborhood. We carried our containers in our hands and the girls balanced their empty buckets on their heads. Everyone knew we were going to Kuomboka. We talked and laughed all the way there.
We passed by Chimujema grocery, then the bags of mealie meal and baking flour displayed outside Farah’s shop. We crossed the tarmac road after Farah’s. It wasn’t usually busy with vehicles; people just used it to go to different neighborhoods. Elderly men drank traditional Chibuku beer at Mpinga Beer Hall while women sold them cooked meat. We passed a fence with tall trees behind it. Dogs stood outside. The mechanic who repaired Leyland trucks worked there. A few minutes later, we crossed yet another tarmac road and finally reached the Kuomboka neighborhood.
A long queue was already waiting at the wide-open tap area. A small house built with concrete bricks stood in the middle. It had a timber door as well as a grill door. A woman who worked for the water and sewage company controlled the main valve inside the house. It led to the four taps outside. When someone had finished filling their five containers, the next person in the queue took their place.
People were shouting at each other while waiting. “It is my turn.” “I was here before you.” Others sat or stood around, doing nothing but wait. Some bought fritters and ice blocks from nearby shops and ate them while chatting with the people they knew. The water ran strong as usual.
Christopher and I put our containers at the end of the line, beside the empty buckets, basins, and containers waiting there, and sat on top them. We were tired from the walk, although I was used to it. “I wish we had come here early,” Christopher said.
The October sun felt hotter while we stood still than it had when we walked.
After a while, some boys from the Kuomboka neighborhood came out of their compounds. One of them looked at our containers and laughed. Another said something to his friends, then they all laughed together. I didn’t understand what was so funny. We had only come to draw and fetch water. We simply waited our turn. I looked down facing the ground instead of them. Christopher stayed quiet beside me. None of us talked back or answered.
The sound of water drops hitting the bottom of the empty container felt like relief. We filled our buckets and containers one by one until they were full to the top and almost too heavy to lift. The walk back home was nothing like the walk there. The containers dug into our fingers. Water splashed over the sides with every step. Christopher stopped for a moment. “My hands hurt,” he said.
I put my containers down too. We both shook our fingers, then we continued. A few minutes later we stopped once again. No one complained.
When we reached our neighborhood, the girls lowered the buckets from their heads. We carried our containers through familiar streets until we reached home. Mom was waiting for me outside our home. She took the container from my hands and brought it into the house. She said nothing.
***
When children from the richer neighborhood came to our neighborhood, we played football together. We chased each other through the same streets. We never laughed because they had more than we did. Yet that afternoon, standing in their neighborhood waiting for water, some of them laughed at us.
Today I still remember the heavy containers filled with water, the ache in my hands, and the long walk back home. I remember all that more than I remember the laughter from the rich neighborhood’s boys. The water was heavy, but I remember carrying it because I knew my family was waiting for it. When I think about my childhood neighborhood, I remember that afternoon. At the time, carrying water home felt like something we had to do. Today, it is one of the memories I value most.
