white watermelons

We were gossiping in the watermelon field.

My rubber band arms- exhausted from the task of hauling heavy loads of melons- were up to my shirt sleeve in watermelon guts. Albino watermelons were cracked all around us and we mechanically dumped the innards into a 20 gallon plastic tub. The melons had sat for too long since being broken on the ground with satisfying clunks and thuds. The days of waiting lured endless squirming maggots to infect our pile of fruit. Ribbed and white, the maggots blended in with what we were after, only making themselves known as tickles between my fingers, sending repulsed shudders down to my tailbone.

And still we gossiped.

You know Ablaye’s father is Adama, right? Oh you didn’t?
Njari was reaching into the trenches of village dirt. Suicide, infidelity, impotence- tales told simply to make my jaw slacken and my eyes miss a blink. I am not a difficult person from whom to get a reaction, so this was a fun game for Njari.

I tried to ignore the maggots clinging to my arm hairs and to stay steady on my tiny stool. I watched the ground for lunch time’s shadows to arrive.