Speedeet & Wilar: two boys, one friendship, Pike Street, Georgetown. Every Sunday.
De kite string cut at exactly de wrong moment.
Speedeet had been holding it for forty-five minutes. His hand was cramping. De kite — a big diamond-shape one he and Wilar had built from bamboo and plastic bag material de night before — was flying good. Real good. Better than either of dem had expected.
Den de string cut.
Just so.
De kite climb up, up, up, above de seawall, above de coconut trees, above de lampposts, going northwest toward somewhere that was not Georgetown anymore.
“Speedeet.”
“I see it.”
“It gone.”
“I know it gone, Wilar. I was holding de string.”
Dem two stand on de seawall and watch de kite until it was a dot. Den dey watch de dot. Den de dot was gone and dey was just watching sky.
It had been Wilar idea to build de kite. Easter Monday on de seawall was de most serious kite-flying day in de whole Guyanese calendar and Wilar had a vision. He drew it on a piece of paper. He showed Speedeet. Speedeet looked at it and said it look like a diagram from a science textbook.
“It’s aerodynamic,” Wilar said.
“It’s a bag on some stick,” Speedeet said.
“Aerodynamically,” Wilar said, “a bag on some stick.”
Dem get de bamboo from Speedeet grandmother yard where she had a small stand of it near de back fence. She watch dem cut it and did not say anything because she know that Easter kites was a sacred thing and she was not de type of grandmother to stand between children and sacred things.
De plastic bag was from de Chinese shop on de corner. Wilar paid for it with his pocket money. He held it like it was significant.
De seawall on Easter Monday was full. Every family in Kitty seemed to be there. Kites of every size and shape and colour was in de air. Some was fancy store-bought ones with tails and designs. Some was clearly home projects like Speedeet and Wilar’s, identifiable by their irregular shapes and the general air of optimism over engineering.
Dem find a spot near de middle section. Wilar held de kite. Speedeet held de string. De plan was: Wilar run, Speedeet let out string, de kite go up, dem both celebrate.
De execution was:
Wilar run.
Speedeet let out string.
De kite go up approximately two feet and then turn sideways and aim itself directly at a woman eating a roti who had to dodge fast.
“Sorry, Auntie,” dem say together.
De auntie give dem de look. Dem know de look. Every Guyanese child know de look.
Dey try again.
Second attempt: de kite went up. Actually up. Six feet. Eight feet. Speedeet let out more string. Wilar was cheering.
Ten feet.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
“It flying, Speedeet!”
“I know man, I doing it!”
Thirty feet, forty, de kite was above de other kites now, catching a wind that was coming off de sea, pulling strong against Speedeet hand. He let out more string. His whole ball of string was almost out.
“Tie it to something,” Wilar say.
“To what?”
“To your wrist.”
Speedeet look at de string. He look at de kite. He look at de sky above de kite.
“Wilar if dis kite strong enough to pull de string, it strong enough to pull my arm.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I am being exact.”
He tied it to his wrist anyway. Because Wilar had paid for de bag with his pocket money and it seemed right.
De wind had other plans.
De string cut — old string, too much tension — and de kite was free in approximately one second.
Dey stand there.
“We shoulda buy new string,” Wilar say.
“We shoulda,” Speedeet agree.
“You think somebody go find it?”
“It probably land in Suriname.”
“They going to wonder who flew a plastic bag to Suriname.”
“They going to know is Guyanese. Is a Easter tradition.”
Wilar was quiet for a moment. Then: “Speedeet. You want to go get another bag and try again?”
Speedeet look at his cramped hand. He look at de sky where de kite used to be. He look at de seawall full of people flying kites that had not disappeared into other countries.
“Yeah,” he said. “But dis time we buying proper string.”
Dey went back to de Chinese shop.
De auntie with de roti watch dem go. She shook her head. But she was smiling. Because kites was supposed to fly away on Easter. Everybody know dat. It just usually happened on purpose.
Speedeet & Wilar publishes every Sunday. This story is fiction set in Georgetown, Guyana. Happy Easter.