A Slip on the Nile

By Marjorie J. Dye

Muneer was standing in water up to his knees, holding his father’s sailboat steady. It was the last trip of the day, and many people were boarding to go to their homes across the Nile. Muneer knew that many of them wouldn’t pay cash, and he wondered how much Father had taken in today. Probably just enough to buy food for supper tonight, he thought. I can’t possibly ask him for money to buy shoes, even if school is starting in two days. I don’t want to drop out, but I won’t go to school barefoot.

Muneer was lifting the little gangplank when he heard someone shout, “Wait!” A husky boy came sauntering down the riverbank, carrying a loud-playing transistor radio. It was Abdu, the son of the richest man in the village. He pushed his way into the boat and crowded onto the bench next to the prow. An old woman moved and sat on the floor to make room for him. He’s spoiled, thought Muneer resentfully. And he won’t pay either since children ride free.

Father sat in the back, steering with the tiller. Muneer gave the boat a push and jumped onto the prow. He unhooked a pole from the mast and pushed with it, following along close to the shore. With no wind the sail hung limply.

Father asked one of the passengers to steer, then he let himself over the edge and waded ashore. Muneer ducked into a cubbyhole at the back of the boat for a rope. Stepping onto the rail again, he almost knocked Abdu’s radio into the water. The boy turned it off and set it on the edge of the prow. He deserves to lose it, Muneer thought, tying one end of the rope to the mast and tossing the other end ashore. Father put the rope over his shoulder, dug in his toes, and slowly pulled the boat upstream to catch a swifter current.

Muneer took the pole again. Starting at the prow, he dug it into the riverbed and held it firm while he walked along the edge of the boat to the far end. Then he pulled up the pole, ran forward, and repeated the process. Every time he stepped around the radio he felt like kicking it overboard. Abdu had fallen asleep, slumped down like a sack of meal. Why should he have so much? Muneer asked himself. I could easily … He looked at his father plodding ahead, the muscles in his legs knotted. It’s not our fault we’re poor, he mused. And Abdu’s father could buy him another radio.

When Father came back and tossed him the rope, Muneer coiled it, standing with his back to the passengers. Making a quick snatch, he ducked into the cubbyhole with the rope and the radio. He hid the radio under some tackle and was out again in a few seconds to help his father row and to wait for Abdu to discover that his radio was gone.

“My transistor!” Abdu shouted when they landed. “You kicked it off!” he said pointing to Muneer.

Muneer flushed. “I did not, though I had to step around it a hundred times!”

Someone else said, “You were just careless, Abdu.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, and Muneer relaxed. Father said nothing at first but finally he spoke. “I’ll see your father tonight, Abdu.” Then Father headed for the village, and Muneer followed.

Is the radio safe? Muneer wondered. Where can I sell it? Why does Father want to see Abdu’s father?

Mother gave them bread and cheese for supper, but Muneer wasn’t hungry. When Father finished, he got up and said, “Come outside, son.” Muneer followed silently. Father sat on the bench by the door. “I’ll have to pay for the radio,” he said.

“But why, Father?”

“Because we’re honest people,” Father answered, looking at Muneer.

“Abdu’s father can buy him another!” declared Muneer. “How can you pay for it, Father?”

“A little each week.”

“Why, I can’t even get shoes for school!” Muneer exclaimed.

“That is true,” Father answered. “But we’re honest people, Muneer.”

It was quiet for a moment as the boy fought back tears. Finally, and with a shaky voice, Muneer said, “I’ll get the radio.”

Father nodded.

Father carried the radio to Abdu’s house and handed it to his father saying, “The radio was on the boat after all.” No questions were asked.

On the way home, Father said quietly, “Muneer, how would you punish your son if you were in my place?”

“Dropping out of school would hurt most,” Muneer said weakly.

“No, not that. What else?”

“Going to school … barefoot, I guess.”

Father sighed. “That would be fair. After two weeks, we might be able to buy you some sandals.”

I’ll have to go to school barefoot for two weeks, so why do I feel happy? Muneer wondered. He thought about it for a moment. Because I’m barefoot but honest, he decided. Then looking up he said, “Thank you, Father.”

Illustrated by Charles Quilter