The boys of our village were used
To seeing naked ladies have their bath
At the bank of the river as early as
When the moon is freshly asleep.
Most boys even competed to wake up
Early enough to feed their lust.
When they arrive, a handful of agama
Would be seen between their thighs,
Nodding their heads affirmatively to our nakedness.
And because that was the way
We were brought up,
Shame was our enemy.
We enjoyed been watched by the boys.
One day, Shade and I went to the stream
To perform our usual ritual:
Washing ourselves, filling our pitchers,
Gossiping and observing our bodies
To discern whom puberty was already smiling at.
Physically, we were like ‘words and opposite’.
Shade was gifted in her teen age.
Her full and enticing body often
Drove men to drink wine through their nostrils.
The dots on my dry teenage chest
Were firmly barricaded by an old wrapper.
The wrapper so old,
The stream recognized it.
It’s ironical how the ones with small breasts
Are the most careful of their bodies
Being revealed to the endowed ones.
The endowed ones tend to be somewhat careless.
As we stooped to fetch,
Shade’s virgin breasts bowed before her.