“Wow!” the boy remarked as he got to the kill his father was now staring at - The arrow
„pinning' it's upper body against the tree - Perfectly through its heart. “How do you do that?” He
asked as he wondered in admiration,
“Just as I've told you, you take position,”
“You shoot the arrow so that your target runs into it?”
“Shot after the animal.” He informed the boy while looking into his eyes,
“I saw it.” He added, after which he placed his left hand on his shoulder, making him feel
okay before turning back to the antelope.
“Let's get it off the tree, I'll tell you more on the way home.” He suggested as he stood
up and got ready to pull out the arrow.
On his back, the boy carried the basket- full of the groceries they had gathered earlier that
morning; following his father who carried the kill on his back, holding its front legs over his
shoulders as he led the way through the colorful forest.
Up ahead, on a slightly raised, clear part of the forest was their home; a well-built mud
house whose four walls leaned outwards as they moved upwards - intersecting with the thick
layer of damp grass and reeds thatching the triangular roof on both sides.
Just next to the house, was a soft-wood rack on which a piece of white, furry hide was
drying; close to which was another rack on which pots, calabashes, cooking sticks, and other
utensils were also drying.
“Are you going fishing tomorrow?” the boy asked as he kept up his pace.
“Yes? Why do you ask?” His father questioned.
“I want to come with you?”
“Son, I've told you before? It's no journey for children?”
“But I'm big now? Don't you see? I can walk?”
“It's too dangerous,”
“And I'm strong father, I can fight.”
He sighed as the boy insisted.
“Please? Just let me come with you? I have to learn to catch fish too? Please father I…”