Every morning before the sun lifted its head over the hills of Mavuno Valley, Amani would wake to the sound of the river talking. It wasn’t really talking, of course, it was the hum of water slipping over stones, the whisper of reeds swaying in the dawn breeze. But to Amani, who had grown up beside that river, it spoke clearer than any person could. It told stories of seasons past, of fish migrations, of children’s laughter echoing through the years. He was twenty-two now, with calloused hands and a heart too big for his small village.
His father had been a fisherman, like most men before him, but the river had grown thinner with time. The catch had dwindled, and...
Fourth Comment