It's hot, we're going swimming at the waterhole, a bit of stream dammed up, overhung by a rope swing tied to a tree. We walk the tree-lined lane to get there, swatting at bugs, shrug off our shorts and tees and squeal as the cool water slaps our warm bodies, two of a small gang of children. We surface, water trickles over our eyelashes and the big teeth of our open mouths to the points of our chins where it drips back to its source, mixed with our spit. Giggles escape our strained throats as we tread water, waiting to see who will splash first, a tanned forearm swiping up into the sunlight, fingers splayed ready to block the return fire. When we tire of the play fight we make for the edge and push-pull-flop ourselves out, breathing strongly. Here we are equals, you'll hold the rope for me when it's my turn to swing out, I'll climb onto the smooth branch and sail an arc over the ripples below and behind me, back to where you wait on the bank.
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