It had not rained in the last njahi season. It had also not rained in the ongoing mwere season. Nyagathanga village was down to its last tree. The Mathioya River, which was always singing an ancient tune as it slithered down the valley like a silver serpent, was now but a whispering stream.
Yet, there was hope, shimmering like a secret. Nyambura, Mumbi’s daughter whose name carried the essence of magic and rain, dusted her old twisted kudu horn. Then she held it up to the clouds, its haunting notes wafting to the skies.
A baby cloud formed in the eastern skies, soft and small. It floated gently but soon grew hungry, gobbling up other wispy clouds on its way. Finally, it swelled into a giant, dark and swirling, its belly full of rain. The sky groaned under its weight, and then, as if unable to hold back its own tears, it began to weep.
For nine days and nights, rain poured across the parched land without pause. The waves in the Mathioya River leapt high like playful wild oxen. The heavens kept crying, their endless tears filling every hole, until puddles became ponds, and ponds became lakes. When would these tears end?
Nyambura once again blew her kudu horn, its mouth pointing to the skies. The deluge reduced to a shower, then a drizzle. Her sisters, the nine full daughters of Mumbi, then took their planting sticks and set off to maganjo to sow.
