Hera Oyomba By Otieno Jamboka Site

The river rose behind her, not in flood, but in a slow, vertical column of dark water that took the shape of a woman with empty eye sockets. The village woke to the sound of drums no one was playing. Chickens dropped dead in their coops. The four tongueless men dropped the chief’s litter and ran, their screams forming words they had not spoken since childhood.

“Mother,” she said, “teach me to remember.” HERA OYOMBA BY OTIENO JAMBOKA

And from inside, Hera Oyomba answered: The river is already listening. What took you so long? The river rose behind her, not in flood,

The rains came that night. They came for seven days and seven nights, filling the river until it burst its banks and washed away the chief’s compound, the crooked market, the hut where the tongueless men slept. But Hera’s hut remained dry, standing on a small island of red earth, and inside, a clay pot slowly filled with tears that tasted like forgiveness. The four tongueless men dropped the chief’s litter