Drops of sweat covered my brow, and I set a basket of folded laundry on my bed. “Mom, I’m all sweaty.” I wiped my face with the bottom of my shirt.

Mom walked past me, carrying another load of clean clothes to her bedroom. “Thank you for taking the clothes off the line and bringing them in for me, Honey.”

Pushing a plastic basket ahead of him along the smooth, cement floor, six-year-old Grant followed Mom. “Can we do something fun now?”

During Christmas vacation in our village of Egbe, Nigeria, the days were as hot and dry as the Sahara. Even though we had to do chores, I was glad to get a month-long break from sixth grade at boarding school.

I ran over and threw my arms around Mom’s waist. “Do you still need our help? Or can Grant and I go swimming?”

“Well, kids, this is the last load. You’ve both been a big help today, and you deserve some fun.”

She patted me on the head. “Let me ask Dad. He’s here on a twenty-minute break between classes.  There might not be anyone else at the pool now, but I’ll remind him you’re both good swimmers.

Mom hurried out to the front room and murmured our request to Dad.

His voice blared through the house. “Debbie’s got to swear on a stack of Holy Bibles that she’ll watch Grant every minute!”

Mom returned and glanced at my brother, then me.

I wrapped my arms tight across my chest. “Dad sounded angry.”

Permission Reluctantly Granted

She stepped closer and put her hands on my shoulders. “Dad’s stressed because the students aren’t happy with the way he’s teaching his calculus class. But he says you and Grant can go to the pool if you promise to keep an eye on your brother the whole time.” She sighed and shook my shoulders. “I know you often start daydreaming and forget what you’re supposed to be doing.”

I folded my hands under my chin and gave her my most trustworthy smile. “Of course. I’ll be very careful.”

As I ran to my room to change, I yelled over my shoulder. “Get your suit on, Grant.”

A few minutes later, wearing our swimsuits and with a towel wrapped around our waists, Grant and I headed down the sandy road from our home.

“Let’s go quickly before they change their minds,” I said.

We ran past two teacher’s houses, then slowed at the dirt path behind the guest house. Rows of corn, shoulder-high, lined both sides of the narrow trail. The long, green leaves brushed my arms as we passed through. For five or ten minutes, we hiked along the familiar route. In the distance, farmers called to each other as they dug up the soil with their hand-crafted hoes.

The trail wound up a hillside made of granite rocks and overgrown brush. We climbed the steep path until we reached a clearing consisting of a huge, flat granite rock the size of a volleyball court. Over to the side, where the rock sloped down the mountain, a wide cement wall was built partially around the rocky hillside. It was filled with water. Uncle Cal Balisky, and his team of talented Nigerian handymen, had skillfully created it to be our swimming pool.

Adventures in the Swimming Pool

My brother and I spread our towels on the dry rock and then waded into the shallow end of the pool. First, we splashed around getting used to the water, then we swam to the deep end. I clambered over the rocky edge and onto the wooden diving board.

After my dive, I popped to the surface quickly. “It’s your turn, Grant. Show me your best dive.”

The little, blond mischief-maker started at the far end of the diving board and raced along its full length. When he jumped, he grabbed his knees and landed like a cannonball, just inches away from me. Water sprayed high into the air all around us.

I shrieked and turned my face away from the wall of water.

Grant pumped a fist into the air. “Gotcha!”

The brush rustled and voices called out from above the pool. Three of the Oladipo children, our friends in Egbe town, Bosede, Yemi, and Deborah, wandered out from the bushes along the hill. The hard-working teens and their little sister were heading home. Each had a big bundle of branches balanced on top of their head. Six-year-old Deborah, my namesake, trailed behind them dragging a stick through the dirt.

They left the path and came to where the water lapped at the edge of the rocky hillside. For a few minutes, the three watched us in silence.

I smiled as I floated in place, kicking my feet.“E pẹlẹ o (hello).” The everyday Yoruba greeting rolled smoothly off my tongue.

Three voices called back.“Pẹlẹ o.”

Grant waved a hand. “Se o daadaa ni (are you well)?” He knew the language better than I did.

Again, the Nigerian siblings chanted together. “Daadaa ni (yes, I am well).”

Help Me, Please!

Deborah stepped to the edge of the pool. Suddenly, she bent her knees, pushed up with her toes, and jumped in the water.

My body tensed, and I cried out. “What are you doing? Deborah, you can’t swim!”  

At the deep end, there was a steep drop-off from the edge with no ledge to stand or hold onto. Could my little friend float or would she sink to the bottom?

Sure enough, she sunk like a stone, and ripples closed over her head.

Standing where the water lapped at the rocky edge, Bosede and Yemi smiled and clapped their hands. Bosede pointed at her little sister when she surfaced and chuckled at the sputtering, crying, and coughing girl.

Yemi bent over with laughter and slapped his knees.

My stomach clenched. They don’t realize their little sister might be drowning!

Down Deborah went again.

A few seconds later, up she came gasping for air. She flailed around, slapping her hands onto the water as if she could push herself up.

However, she went down once more, and the frothy water swirled over her head.

Again, she rose, gasping and choking on a mouthful of water. The water-logged girl waved her hands above her head, trying to grab an invisible rope from the sky.

My heart pounded like an African drum. I’d heard that when someone goes under three times, they drown. Why doesn’t anyone seem to care? I’m too young to do anything.

Don’t Just Stand There—Do Something

I looked over at Grant. His eyes bulged out of their sockets, and his mouth hung open. The shock on his face spurred me to action. With three strokes I reached the sinking girl, grabbed her under one arm, and yanked her head above water.

She gasped in great gulps of air, shaking her head and flapping her arms. As one of her hands flashed in front of my nose, I ducked.

Then dragging my precious bundle, I paddled with my free arm a few feet to shore. She calmed down, but the rocky edge was rough, and Deborah was heavy.

“Help! Lift her up, please.”

Finally, her brother and sister sprang to action. They reached down, each grabbed an arm, and hauled the spluttering girl to safety.

For a minute or two, Deborah coughed water out of her mouth and snorted it out of her nose. When she was breathing normally again, the siblings took her by the hand. They waved goodbye and walked to the path leading to the village.

Soon after they disappeared, Grant and I climbed out of the pool. The fun of swimming had faded. We dried off and trudged down the hill, through the cornfield toward home.

That evening during our family dinner, a man’s voice boomed from the front porch. “E kaale (good evening).”

My dad stood up, peered into the dark, and responded with the same greeting. “E kaale.” He grinned and opened the door. “Please, come in.”

They shook hands and spoke together in Yoruba.

“Debbie, here’s Uncle Titus Oladipo to see you.”

My cheeks burned, and I shifted in my seat. Had I done something wrong?

Dad said, “Is it true you saved Deborah from drowning?”

I don’t know everyone in the photo, but I think that is Bosede over my right shoulder, and Yemi on the far right. I couldn’t find a picture of Deborah.

An Unusual Gift

I shrugged. “Well, I guess so.” Then the words tumbled out. “She jumped in the deep end, but Yemi and Bosede didn’t know what to do and just stood there. Then I pulled Deborah over to them.”

Uncle Titus smiled and bowed. “Adupe pupo (thank you very much).” He handed Dad a plate covered with aluminum foil.

Dad pulled off the foil and uncovered a steaming, hot serving of tasty-looking grilled meat.

I bounced in my seat, happy to know I wasn’t in trouble. “What is it?”

In Yoruba, Dad questioned Uncle Titus. At his answer, both men chuckled.

“It’s a local specialty for a happy occasion,” Dad said, and his eyes twinkled. “After Bosede and Yemi told their parents the story, Aunt Mary Oladipo prepared a gift of gratitude.”

Dad’s smile reached from ear to ear as he handed me the plate. “It’s python!”

We passed around the dish and each took a turn tasting the delicacy.

Grant rubbed his tummy and smacked his lips. “I think it tastes a bit like chicken.”

I swallowed a bite. “Yes, chicken. But also, like fish.”

“What a treat,” Dad said. He patted my head. “Thank you for looking out for Deborah and Grant today.”

Looking Back at My Childhood

The whole swimming incident was a shock. I couldn’t believe Deborah jumped into the pool. In those days, few Nigerians learned how to swim. Most children worked hard on the farm or other family businesses and didn’t have time for swimming. Thus, there were few swimming pools, and the river was mainly for transportation or washing laundry. Deborah probably didn’t realize staying afloat required a special technique. When she saw Grant and me swimming, it must have looked fun and easy.

Fortunately, Deborah didn’t fight me when I reached out to help. She was small enough for me to drag her to safety, and she was close to shore. Once we got home, Grant and I started with other chores and then playtime. No one asked how the swimming went. Not until Deborah’s father appeared with the gift of food, did I realize I had saved her life.

The gift of the grilled snake was such a nice surprise. Among the Yoruba, giving food was a common way to show gratitude or friendship, yet it was also very special for us. We loved it when we received locally prepared food.

What I Know Now

Back then, we called all adults by Aunt or Uncle as a sign of friendship and respect. I didn’t allow myself to feel flattered that Uncle Titus and Aunt Mary Oladipo had named their youngest daughter after me. Deborah was five or six years younger than I was, and I considered her a little kid.

I also felt embarrassed by thinking of myself as a hero. Since the little girl was so close to shore, it was a simple thing to paddle over and pull her to the edge. Anyone would have done that.

As a child, I lived in my head and didn’t discuss my thoughts, worries, and ideas with my parents. Life in general confused me, and I often felt like I was doing things wrong. Both my mom and dad were terribly busy, and there never was time for long conversations. Often when I spoke up, my thoughts were dismissed, so I didn’t bother to try. I really needed to have someone talk through my day with me. I didn’t get that either at boarding school or at home. Therefore, I often felt like I was drowning in my anxieties.

Today I work purposefully to corral anxious thoughts. Talking with my husband, girlfriends, and walking partners every day helps me regain perspective.

Father, thank you for your unfailing love for me. Thank you for hearing me when I cry and setting my feet on solid ground when I am drowning.

I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand. (Psalm 40:1,2 NIV)