Eleven Eleven

Eleven as a number has never held any meaning to me, I couldn’t care less about it after I learnt to count. If anyone asked me to recite facts on the number eleven before today, I honestly wouldn’t have known a single thing about it. What I can tell you is that in the last few hours I have learnt more about the number eleven than I ever cared to know. It is the smallest two-digit prime number, it’s the number of players on each side of soccer, cricket, and football, it is the number of sides on a Canadian dollar coin, it is the tenth most popular lucky number in the world, World War I ended on the eleventh day of the eleventh month at the eleventh hour – funnily enough so did my life.

I thought I should cut to the chase right away, rather than drag it out, now that I am in the afterlife, I have all the time in the world and access to infinite knowledge; how else would I have all these unwanted facts about the number eleven running around my head? How did I die, I am sure you are asking, well let me set the scene? I have had some time to reflect and think about all of the moments leading to my death and this is the story I would like to tell.

It was hot. Hotter than I can ever remember it being. The earth burnt my feet and the sun hurt my eyes, my throat was dry and all I could smell was a mix of spices and sickness. I know that seems like an awfully odd combination but everyone in my house had been unwell, we smelt like that awful acrid sickness smell, my mouth tasted like it too, our stomachs were distended from the abuse our bowels had suffered due to illness. The smell of cooking from homes far away was drifting through the hot air, there was no breeze, so I don’t know how it wafted so far. There was something about the sick smell, sweat, and the scent of cumin, paprika, and turmeric mingling in our home made me feel claustrophobic and even more unwell. My head pounded from being engulfed in the sickening smells, my mouth felt full of cotton, my stomach churned painfully. I was seven years old, so old enough to walk to the river by myself and cool down. I felt so hot, feverish if you will, I needed to get out of the sick smell and cool down.

I had been allowed to go to the river on my own since I turned seven, the date of my birth was four months and twelve days before I died. I felt so grown-up walking to the end of the road and bathing in the river. It was a right of passage in my town, we knew to stay on the shore and wash carefully, and there was always someone nearby, an aunty or cousin who would be watching us. We were never really alone, it just felt like that. My mumma was so sick, I didn’t want to bother her, by waking her up to say I was going to cool down by the river. Instead, I just walked to the river myself, I took a bucket to fill with water to bring home for my family.

When I reached the riverbank, it was eerily quiet, now that I think about it; there was no one around – or so I thought. I had filled the water bucket first, then had dipped my feet in the cool water savouring how it felt lapping against my legs. We hadn’t left the house for some time, as we had been so sick, and despite the heat, the sun on my back while the cool water engulfed my feet felt otherworldly. I had escaped the smells of my home; I could breathe again. I washed my feet, my legs, my arms. I bent down to wash my face and mouth, scrubbing away the stinging feeling of my skin and the cotton in my mouth. The back of my neck prickled, I felt as if someone may be watching me. I whipped my head around, trying to catch whoever was behind me. When my eyes focussed, I could see two older kids from my street approaching. No big deal I thought, they often come to the river the same time I do. They walked up beside me, settling a few paces away from where I was washing.

We didn’t say anything to each other, but I could feel them watching me. I should have known something was wrong then and there, but I was naïve, at least that is what I tell myself. I knew I had to get home soon, so I washed my face and mouth once more to make sure that cotton feeling didn’t return. As I leant down to wash my face, I felt a hand wrap around the back of my neck and push down. I froze, what was happening? Everything moved quickly, I couldn’t get back up, my mind raced, and I tried to force myself to be calm. Nature kicked in though and my body responded on its own after a few seconds, splashing and pushing trying to get to the surface. I needed air. I tried to turn my head, but I was shoved further into the water, my face collided with the muddy bank. It hurt. I saw white lights pop behind my eyes and felt something crunch – I think it was my nose. I needed to breathe so badly, my lungs acted of their own accord and tried to draw breath but instead of air they filled with water and mud. I jerked, tried to cough, and splutter it all out but it just made my lungs take in more water and mud. My eyes hurt, it felt like they were exploding. I felt the pressure increase on my neck and my head pounded, my lungs ached and burned, like I was being eaten from the inside out by thousands of fire ants.

Then it was still, quiet, nothing. I was here. Pretty horrific hey? Much gorier than the real story. It is all pretty much the same in the real story, except for the bit about the kids pushing my head down. In actuality I made it home with my bucket of water, delivering it to my family who all smelt sick just as I did, who all had swollen and distend stomachs like mine. That should have been the warning sign, our stomachs, our smell, our sickness but I didn’t see it. I didn’t know that I was meant to be worried. My mumma told me we had caught a bug. It wasn’t just any bug though; we had caught an illness from the river water – the very water I had just bathed in and drank. The water I brought home for my family. I didn’t know. Instead, we drank more water, and I immediately threw it up. I was shaking from the effort of throwing up, I was exhausted. My mumma lay down with me, held me close, and patted my until I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was here.

It sounds peaceful but really it was disorienting. How could water kill me if I didn’t drown? Well now, because of my access to infinite knowledge, I know that I was one of the people that dies every ten seconds due lack of access to safe water. I did not know there was safe and unsafe water, there was just the river, and as long as I didn’t let the water go above my waist, I would be okay. That is what mumma told me. So now I am here, bored out of my brains, waiting for my family or friends to join but also hoping they don’t because that would mean they are dead. Which story should I tell when newcomers ask how I got here? The one I made up about the kids killing me, or the real one where it was my living conditions?