12/07/2025
When the Rains Failed
Chipo wiped her dusty hands on her torn chitenge cloth and looked at the empty pot beside the cold stones where fire used to burn. Three days now without food. Her stomach had stopped making noise yesterday.
"Mama," whispered her little brother Mwila from the corner of their small mud house. His eyes looked too big in his thin face. "When will Papa come back?"
Chipo's heart broke a little more. Papa had walked to the next village five days ago, looking for work, for anything. The maize in their field had turned brown and died when the rains stopped coming. All the families in their village were hungry now.
"Soon, Mwila. Papa will come soon." She tried to make her voice strong, but tears wanted to come.
Outside, she could hear Mrs. Banda crying softly. Her baby was sick, and there was no money for medicine. The clinic was too far, and they had no transport.
Chipo looked at the small bag where they kept their money. Only three kwacha left. Not enough for mealie meal. Not enough for anything.
She remembered last year when their fields were green and full. When Mama was still alive, before the sickness took her. When they had enough food and could even share with neighbors.
Now the sun was setting, painting the sky orange and red. Beautiful, but Chipo felt only emptiness. She pulled Mwila close to her and hummed the song Mama used to sing. Tomorrow she would try again. She would walk to the road and maybe find some work. Maybe someone would need help carrying water or cleaning.
She had to keep hoping. For Mwila. For Papa who would come back. For tomorrow that might be better than today.
In the darkness, she whispered a prayer to the ancestors, asking them to watch over their small family until the rains came again.
