Tags:
United States - Emigration and immigration,
United States,
Refugees - United States,
Biographical,
Deng; Valentino Achak,
Refugees - Sudan,
Biographical fiction,
Fiction,
Literary,
Sudan,
Sudanese,
Historical fiction,
Sudan - Emigration and immigration,
General,
Refugees,
Sudan - History - Civil War; 1983-2005,
Sudanese - United States
small glittering eyes. When she smiles, she does not show her teeth; she is the only girl I know who smiles this way—and her walk! She walks with a strange bounce, resting longer on the balls of her feet than most, resulting in a happy kind of gait, one I have on occasion tried myself. When I imitate her I feel merrier, too, though it makes my calves sore. On most days, Amath wears a brilliant red dress, with a picture of a milk white bird upon it, English letters splayed around it like flowers thrown into a river. I know that we can never be married, Amath and I, for with her many desirable features, she will be spoken for by the time I am ready. She is almost of age already and will likely be married within the year. But until then she can be mine. Though I have always been too timid to say much to her, there was one day, in a state of heightened courage or carelessness, I simply walked up to her, and so this becomes part of my best day.
—Achak! How are you, young man? she says, brightening.
She often called me young man and when she did I immediately knew what it was, in every way, to be a man. I was very sure I knew.
—I am good, Madam Amath, I say, speaking as formally as possible, which I know from experience will impress Amath. —Can I help you? I have time to help if you need it. If you need help from me in any way…
I know I’m rattling on but cannot help it. I stomp quickly with one foot, wanting to cut my tongue from my mouth. Now I have only to find a way to finish my thought and let it be.
—Can I be your helper in some way? I say.
—You’re such a gentleman, she says, treating me, as she always does, with the utmost seriousness. —You may help me indeed. Can you get me some water? I have to cook soon.
—I’ll get some from the river! I say, my feet already restless, ready to run.
Amath laughs while still concealing her teeth. Did I love her more than any other? Is it possible that I loved her more than anyone in my own family? Often I knew I would choose her over anyone else, even my mother. She confused me, TV Boy.
—No, no, she said. —That’s not necessary. Just…
But already I’m gone. I’m soaring. My grin grows as I run, as I imagine how excited she will be with my speed, the incredible speed with which I will carry out her request, and my grin fades only when I realize, halfway to the river, that I don’t have a container to hold the water.
I alter my course, turning into the marketplace, into the mass of traders and shoppers, weaving through a hundred people so fast they feel only my wind. I fly past the smaller shops, past the men drinking wine on the benches, past the old men playing dominoes, past the restaurants and the Arabs selling clothes and rugs and shoes, past the twins my age, Ahok and Awach Ugieth, two very kind and hardworking girls carrying bundles of kindling on their heads, Hello, Hello, we say, and finally I step into the darkness of my father’s store, completely out of breath.
—What’s the matter? he asks. He is wearing the sunglasses he wears every day, in daylight and most nights. He traded a small goat calf for the glasses, and so treats them with as much care and reverence as he does his best cow.
—I need a cup, I manage, between gasps. —A big cup. My eyes scan the shop for the proper vessel. It is a large shop for the region, big enough to hold six or seven people, with two walls made of brick and a roof of corrugated steel. There are dozens of objects to choose from, and my eyes race around the shelves like a sparrow caught indoors. Finally I grab a measuring cup from behind the counter.
—At your speed that won’t help you, my father says, his eyes amused. —You’ll spill half of it before you get back to her.
How did he know?
—You think I’m blind? my father says, and laughs. My father is known for his sense of humor, for finding a reason to smile during any minor calamity. And his laugh! A belly laugh that rumbles and shakes
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