The Day the Rain Refused to Fall
The Day the Rain Refused to Fall There was a time when the sky over Kanyangi was a friend. People would look up and say “She’s heavy today—blessings are coming.” Children would dance when thunder rolled, women would sing while harvesting, and the men would tell stories of the sky gods who carried water in their calabashes. But that was long ago. Now, people barely looked up. They were busy chasing bars of signal, not rainbows. They trusted forecasts more than faith, and their prayers had turned into hashtags. The old songs of calling rain had become lullabies that only grandmothers remembered—and even they sang them quietly, afraid of being called superstitious. Then came the long silence. The sky stayed grey, swollen but unmoving. Days folded into weeks, weeks into months. The maize shriveled in the fields, the goats bleated dry coughs, and the river that had once giggled through the valley now slept beneath cracked earth. The chief called meetings. The pastor held overnig...