a wet rug was placed over the hot lantern chimney
when the rug had soaked up enough heat and could no longer breathe
it was placed over the fresh wound on my leg
I squirmed, screamed and tossed in pain
Thick arms gripped me, so that the wet, hot rug could engage in a long lick of my wound
mother’s indirect warning to desist from playing carelessly next time
but the sticks in my ears won’t let me hear
following day I will be back with my squad
limping
roaming aimlessly in nearby bushes with catapult
chasing birds and grasshoppers
the generous thorny savanna grasslands
donating as much fresh sores as my legs could carry
which is why mother’s ritual of dipping wet rugs on hot lantern chimneys or into hot salty water to disinfect the wounds never ended

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