It was now late in night. In the far distance, I could hear a drum thumping its heart out, punctuated by erratic singing which echoed and reverberated in the night. Chenura.
There I lay alone on the tattered sleeping mat in the thatched hut, devoid of blankets. It was seeringly hot. A sliver of the moon once appeared in a gap on the thatch. But I never saw the beauty of it.
For a thousandth time, my thoughts again wandered to what had happened in the afternoon at the local borehole.
Shuwa shuwa here, kuti Tariso anondiramba pazere vanhu?
“Handitombokuda Joe. Pengera kwawakaroyerwa. Wazvinzwa here iwe rombe rekwaMupakati? Unondipei ipo pawakati mhaa?”, she had loudly said, amid laughter of the many rural people who had come to fetch water.
“Ko zvine muto ndozvine…” I did not even finish the sentence, as I felt the cold gush of water onto my face. Aizve, zvakutori kudirwa nhai.
Sleep would not come early.