The sky is a dark shadow when I awake. The envious moon still concealing the fair sun as I tie a hollow gourd to my clay jug handle, and straighten the knot in my back. The astounding crack is like a firing pistol, and the excruciating pain is just as sharp as the noise is loud. My body feels worn from a rough night’s sleep, the coating of sticky sweat like a downy of thick blood. My recurring nightmares of becoming a child soldier in Sudan's current (and second) civil war still haunts my wake, and makes me especially cautious when I'm out alone. I creep to my parents' mat to say a quiet goodbye, as I’ll be gone for far more than a few hours.
I use my fingertips to lightly trace the traditional scars of manhood on my father's head. Six long lines on each side, straight as they should be. He did not flinch. I touch my own temple, wondering, Could I ever be that strong? Unfazed in the face of pain and fear? The answers to those questions, I don’t know. I shift to my mother's side. My lips are a breath away from her ear when her eyes suddenly snap open. The soft blossom of dawn illuminating her face makes her cheeks appear dark and gaunt. The famine spreading across our country has hit my home hard.
“Take the little one,” she murmurs quietly, and points to my little -and only- sister with a tired, bony finger. My sister sits dozing in a corner of the room, already dressed and sucking on a pruny finger. I can feel my face fall with the realization of what my mother is getting at. I hate taking my sister along with me to the the pond.  I look at my mother with pleading eyes, an argument ready on the tip of my tongue, but the red rimmed and crusty eyes she meets me with are fierce, with a look that screams it isn’t a good idea to be testy with her today. I bite back my words, seething, and let out a groan for good measure, but she simply smirks triumphantly and rolls over. Her steady beat of snores fills the small room yet again.
Meanwhile, my sister had awoken, bleary eyed and confused. Her long dark lashes flutter against her face and butterfly kisses caress her cheeks. I shoot a look at her that could curdle milk, but she just replies with a lazy grin. Subsequently, I flash her yet another withering glare, spin on my heel, and head towards the door with a snap of my fingers over a shoulder. The scowl she forms in retaliation burns a hole in my back, but then she scrambles off to retrieve a soap bar and the knapsack full to the brim of dirty clothing. Together we step out of the dark mud hut we call home, and into the light of the world.
We walk in a stoney silence, my sister’s little legs working double to keep up with my long-legged strides. Her small hand curled in mine, soft as a cloud from a life unfamiliar with hard work. I stare down at my sister, and can’t help but notice how pretty she is. When she marries, we’ll fetch a fine number of cattle as a dowry. My sister catches me staring and blinks up at me with her chocolate doe eyes. Our gazes lock, and within her eyes I see my reflection. I have never been very attractive, but after years of walking through sand and dirt, my looks, like most of the water, is gone. Each trait unresponsive to my futile efforts. My eyes however, had always been my best feature. They’d been striking. A lively green with gold edges and flecks of amber. Now, after years of fetching water all day, every day, they’ve become like the rest of me.
Dull and grey.
Dead.
I shuffle forward, sand scattering into rich red dust in my wake. Just one more step. Just one more step. I put one foot in front of the other, studying the ground rather than the distant oasis, and just telling myself to go a little further each time. My sister however, begins to falter and slow, lagging behind me, only moving along with my persistent, dragging hand. I slow myself down. If we walk at my usual pace we could make it home by midday. We are among the lucky few though. We don't have to live by the Dinka tribe along the lake to survive this drought. The tensions they have over land and water boundaries with my people of the Nuer tribe will often kill us before the dehydration and disease can. Still, I walk with her anyway. I am her keeper and she is my lamb. I’d give my life for her salvation. My face darkens with a wild sort of determination and I pull my sister closer. She follows as I lead her to the water.
As we approach the pond, I crinkle my nose at the suffocating, fetid, malodorous reek of the water that breaks through my smell barrier. Redolent of potent ordure and festering fish. The wrinkles on the dark bridge of my nose mimicking the the deep brown, rippling water. Rather than reaching home by noon, we’ve already taken double my usual time, and by then we’ve just arrived at the pond. I untie the gourd and let her drink her fill first, finding the coolest, clearest water for her, while I settle for the murky solution, swirled with sludge and other unknowns. It tastes horrendous, hot as fire with an unidentifiable mix of sand and waste. My tongue recoiling back into the gritty depths of my parched, puckering mouth from the offensive flavor.
“Come here,” I say, beckoning her towards me. She obeys my command. I produce a small washcloth and the bar of soap from the knapsack. My sister perches beside me as I wet the cloth with soapy water. I then proceed to wash her dirt caked, blistering feet. She bleats as I pull a thorn from her foot. I never care what I look like at the pond anymore, but she’s so little and so young. As she wades in the water, I realize how much I truly care for her precious happiness and innocence. For her hands to never become like mine, and for her face to stay forever bright. I never want her eyes to dim.
My sister sits scrubbing the clothes on the bank of the pond, hot and wet to to her waist. Her face flushed and sweaty under the scorching Sudanese sun. We are alone at the pond, and it is quiet and calm. Suddenly I find myself grinning from ear to ear as I flick out a hand to splash her with the brisk water. She lets out a high pitched squeal as the water touches her burning skin, and soon the tranquility of the pond’s unperturbed surface and its still, picturesque environ is broken with our boisterous hoots and relentless splashing. With a tackle, she finally dunks me under until I am completely submerged by the water. As she lifts me out, with my face towards the heavens and a symphony of laughter erupting from my mouth, I could've sworn a little sunlight shined down, into my eyes.
By the time we’ve finished our scrubbing and filling the jug, we’re sodden with water, and a rosey pink is returning to the sky once more. As we walk from the pond, I stop suddenly, and my sister gives me a perplexed look. I'm determined to make things different for her than life had been for me thus far. I tug her arm towards a different path, a new route for us to follow. Hands laced and swinging, we walk under a canopy of trees, voices raised in sweet harmony. Each ground-breaking step taken in unison. We stroll as one beneath a few trees that had arched together under the weight of the world.