It’s a very good roll, a challenging one. It will take a strong throw for Ugama to send his pole gliding across the field that far. But if the throw is too hard, then his pole will continue on beyond the space marked out for the field of play. An automatic disqualification.

Ugama, though, does not appear worried at all about how difficult this might be. He takes a swift run, his feet pounding the ground. Then he casts his pole and does his usual roll. But this time instead of sprawling out at the end he actually comes up running on his feet. Impressive! Not only that, he continues running—along the edge of the playing field—and so not interfering with his throw.

“Go,” he shouts at his pole as he follows it. “Go straight!”

And his pole does just that, right at the chunkey stone where it stops—Click!—just as its tip lightly strikes the very middle of the stone.

I am glad I am not playing against Ugama. That throw is one of the best I have ever seen anyone make! It’s so good that Equgugu is standing with his eyes as wide as the night bird he is named after. He can hardly believe it. He already feels beaten.

Sure enough, when he casts his own pole it skids off to the left and goes right out of the field of play.

As Ugama collects the three sticks they’d wagered on their contest, Galuloi steps forward with the chunkey stone he’s chosen. He’s next in line to play against the winner. Since I arrived late, I will be last. I sit down and lean back against the wall of the town house.

With the tip of my pole, I begin scratching patterns in the dirt. Maybe this time I can make something that looks like an eagle.

Someone sits down next to me.

“It is sad about my friend Udagehi, is it not?” Gayusoli says, leaning his shoulder against mine in a way that does not feel friendly. Also, the way he spoke those words did not make them sound like a question. But I know that I should answer him.

“Yes,” I say. “That is true.”

“Is it not also true that such accidents have been happening more often?” Gayusoli’s tone has become accusatory.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, still moving the tip of my stick in the dirt.

“Perhaps you do,” Gayusoli says. “Perhaps you and your father speak about such things when you visit him.”

I don’t know how to answer something like that. When someone says bad things about you or your family, there is no reply that you may make to change their mind. That is what my mother often says. I trust her wisdom. The best one can do is to walk away.