Speedeet and Wilar — two boys from Pike Street, Kitty, Georgetown. Every Sunday.
De argument start before dey even reach de seawall.
“A kite need a tail,” Wilar say. He was carrying de bamboo frame, holding it careful like it was something important. Which it was. Dey had spend two hours building it.
“A kite don’t need a tail,” Speedeet say. He was carrying de string and de extra plastic bag material. “A tail is just showing off.”
“A tail give it stability.”
“A tail drag it down.”
“Speedeet. I read about dis.”
“You read about everything and still can’t swim.”
Wilar get quiet because dat was true and also not relevant but hard to argue with.
De seawall on Easter Monday was de most serious kite-flying event in de whole Guyanese calendar and everybody on Pike Street knew it. By ten o’clock de wall was full — families spreading out along de concrete, coolers and snacks and children running, and above dem a whole sky of kites. Store-bought ones with proper tails and painted designs. Home-made ones like Speedeet and Wilar’s, identifiable by their irregular shape and de general air of hope over engineering.
Dey find a good spot near de middle section, away from de family with de very large cooler who looked like dey planned to be there all day and required significant personal space.
“You hold de kite,” Speedeet say. “I hold de string. When I say run, you run.”
“Why I running? You de one with de string.”
“Because somebody have to launch it into de wind.”
“You launch it into de wind.”
“Wilar.”
“Speedeet.”
Dey look at each other. Wilar had paid for de plastic bag material — forty dollars at de Chinese shop. Speedeet had borrowed de bamboo from his granny yard without fully asking. Dey was equally invested.
“We go do it together,” Wilar say. “I hold de kite up, you run backward with de string.”
“Run backward?”
“Into de wind.”
“Wilar if I run backward I going to hit somebody.”
“Run backward carefully.”
De first attempt: Speedeet run backward carefully. He hit somebody. Not hard — just a brush against a woman who was walking with a roti in her hand. De roti survive. De woman give dem de look. Every Guyanese child know de look. It carry more information than most conversations.
“Sorry, Auntie,” dem say together.
De kite, meanwhile, had gone up approximately three feet and then turn sideways and land on de seawall.
De second attempt work.
Wilar hold de kite up high. Speedeet back up into a clear space, let out string, felt de pull as de wind catch it, and de kite climb. Six feet. Ten. Twenty. De plastic bag material crinkle and pull, de bamboo frame hold, and de kite was actually flying — actually up there above de other kites, catching a higher wind.
“Don’t let go,” Wilar say. He was watching from below, shading his eyes.
“I not letting go.”
“Let out more string.”
“I letting out string.”
Thirty feet. Forty. De whole ball of string nearly out now, and de kite was pulling strong, straining against Speedeet hand. He could feel it in his shoulder.
“Tie it,” Wilar say.
“To what?”
“Your wrist.”
Speedeet look at his wrist. He look at de kite. He think about de physics of this. He tie it to his wrist anyway because Wilar had paid forty dollars and it seemed right.
De string was old. Dey had find it in Speedeet granny shed. It was good string once. It had seen better days and also better tensions.
It cut.
Just so. Clean.
De kite climb. Up past de other kites. Up above de coconut trees. Up into a wind that was going northwest, away from de seawall, away from Kitty, away from Georgetown.
Dey watch it.
It become a dot.
Den de dot become nothing.
“Speedeet.”
“I know.”
“It gone.”
“I was holding de string, Wilar. I know it gone.”
Dey stand there for a while. De woman with de roti walk past again going de other direction. She look at dem. She look at de sky where de kite used to be. She shake her head like dis was exactly what she expected from boys who run backward into people.
“You think it land in Suriname?” Wilar ask.
“Probably.”
“Dey going to wonder what is dis.”
“Dey going to know is Guyanese. Easter kite reach Suriname every year.”
“Is a tradition,” Wilar agreed.
Dey went back to de Chinese shop. Wilar bought new string — proper string, from de big roll, not whatever was in Speedeet granny shed. De woman at de counter look at dem like she remember dem from earlier, which she probably did.
Dey went back to de seawall.
Dey build a second kite from de spare bamboo and de extra bag material Speedeet had carried.
Dis one had a tail. Speedeet put it on himself without saying anything about it.
Wilar notice but also say nothing.
De kite fly until four o’clock when dey had to go home for dinner. It was still in de sky when dey leave. Dat was de best kind of ending.
Speedeet & Wilar publishes every Sunday. This story is fiction set in Georgetown, Guyana. The kite is based on real events that happen every Easter Monday on the seawall. The roti survived.