“Workers,” the driver shouted, “harvesting is at Field 16.”
“Okay, Oga,” Papa and his friends answered.
That field was quite close to my school.
Papa chucked his work tools in the truck. Next went his lunch bag then him.
As the gwongworo pulled out, they sang, “Oh ho. Oh ho. Ho! Ho! Oh ho. Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!”
Standing in the shadows, I echoed until their voices grew fainter and fainter until it ceased.