The Drought: A Poem
by Denis Kabi
The ground was cracking
into slabs of hexagonal dried clay,
their edges curling skywards
like hands lifted in prayer,
praying for rain.
A water reservoir once existed here
and many people flocked to fetch water from it
for their own use;
and their herds too depended on it
to quench their thirst.
But then came the drought,
and the reservoir was no more.
No rain had fallen for a long while now,
and no one could even recall what year
the last rains had fallen.
Children under five probably didn’t know what rain was,
for they’d never seen droplets of water
falling continuously from the clouds,
and creating rivulets on the ground
which streamed into the reservoir,
filling it to its brim.
Whenever the reservoir was full,
there was joy amongst the people.
Singing could be heard
as the community prepared the fields
for planting season.
Singing could be heard
as the community weeded the fields.
Singing could be heard
as the community eventually harvested the crop.
Everyone would have enough to eat,
and every other night the youth would be outdoors
merrymaking, celebrating this or that occasion.
Even minor occasions like birthdays
wouldn’t be allowed to pass without a feast.
In times of plenty, every day is a celebration.
A goat or two would be slaughtered on such an occasion,
and there would be plenty of meat
to be roasted or boiled or fried;
and plenty of other foods and drinks
to accompany the meat.
Drumbeats would rend the air
and dancing fêtes would drag well into the night.
Large herds allowed for dowry
to be paid promptly and generously;
and many marriage ceremonies took place
during such times of plenty.
On every face there would be a ready smile,
and all eyes gleamed with something good
– happiness, hope, contentment, certainty.
Adversity would be the last thought in anybody’s mind.
But it’s always there,
lurking in the shadows,
looming in the horizon,
zooming in on the carefree merrymakers.
It creeps in so slowly that no one realizes
that it is there,
until the ground starts to crack
into a million slabs of dried clay.
The slabs of dried clay cracked and disintegrated into bits
when the bare feet of an emaciated drained man
walked over them.
The sun was high and blazing
and he was extremely thirsty.
He needed to find water to drink fast,
and if he didn’t find any,
he’d collapse and give up the ghost.
He felt so weak that his will to live
was the only thing that sustained him.
His tongue clang to the roof of his mouth
and his eyes were so dry
that blinking couldn’t wet them.
Perhaps only a hose could.
As he walked,
he scanned the cracked ground for any signs of mud,
for he reasoned that there could be water
underneath any muddy patch of arid ground.
He was lucky,
because he soon spotted such a muddy patch
amongst the slabs of cracked earth,
and knelt beside it.
With his bare hands he began to dig
and he scooped large mounds of wet earth,
and dumped them on the edges
of the one-foot deep, one-foot wide hole
that he’d excavated.
At two feet deep, he groaned with frustration
and stopped digging.
There was no water in there.
Just mud.
Damned wretched mud.
If the muddy hole was six-feet deep
and six-by-three feet in length and width,
it would have made a cool place to rest for a long time,
he thought while gazing at it resentfully.
What if he scooped a mound of mud
and wrung it like a drenched cloth, he thought.
Perhaps water would come out of it.
He swiftly scooped a large mound of earth
with both his hands,
raised it over his open mouth,
and wrung it like a drenched cloth,
expecting cool water to trickle into his mouth.
No water came out of the mud;
not even a single drop.
He flung the mound away and cursed it bitterly
and then stood up.
He was panting and seething with anger and frustration
as his eyes scanned the deserted arid vicinity
for any signs of the presence of water.
Just beyond the curve of the sandy horizon
he spotted a white object
which had a tall upright plank
and a slightly shorter horizontal plank
fitted across it.
It looked like a cross,
similar to the ones found at Christian houses of worship.
The white cross glowed in the sun like a star
and he was so intrigued by it
that he started to walk slowly towards it,
his bare feet dragging over the cracked ground.
After an hour of walking,
he still hadn’t gotten to it
and he started to think that the white object was a mirage,
similar to the illusory pool of water
usually seen glittering in the distance
on a sunny day.
But the cross’s potent glowing light drew him to it.
Another hour passed as he walked
towards the intriguing white object in the distance,
and as he walked, he grew thirstier.
The sun was blazing with fury
and there was not a tree in sight
or a house in which he could take shelter under.
He considered turning around
and going back the way he’d come,
but when he peeked over his shoulder
he saw a long trail of his footprints
stretching out over the dry expansive bare ground.
There was nothing back there
to go back to, he thought.
Nothing but sure death.
So he looked ahead and kept his eyes fixed on the cross,
and even though he grew thirstier with each step,
he kept walking towards it.
The heat was so intense
that he imagined that if he looked up to the sky,
he would see a thousand suns shining up there like stars.
He came across a withered thorn bush
which had recently fallen to the ground
and scattered its dead branches.
When he took his eyes from the cross to look at it,
he felt a sharp pain sting his heel,
and he had to stop to crouch and examine his heel.
A long thick nasty-looking white thorn was embedded
deep into the flesh of his heel.
He grimaced and writhed at it.
Muttering something under his breath,
he held the stem of the thorn between his fingers
and yanked it out.
A globule of ruddy blood rose to the surface
of the perforated area of the heel
and he released a sibilant hiss through his front teeth
as a sharp pain shot up his leg.
He flung the thorn away
and pressed the tip of his thumb
on the perforated area of his heel
until he felt sure the blood had clotted.
There was a blotch of red on his heel
when he pulled his thumb away,
and as soon as he put his foot down to walk,
the sharp pain again shot up his leg.
He grunted and seethed in ire.
But when he looked up to the horizon
and saw the gleaming white cross,
he temporarily forgot his pain
and instantly resumed his long walk towards it.
With each step he took towards the cross,
the wound on his heel inflicted by the thorn,
kept nagging him with sharp pain.
The wound on his heel kept reminding him
of the adversity he’d left behind.
The pain reminded him of the prolonged drought
that had refused to cease.
The blood he’d seen on his heel reminded him
of the folks and flocks that had perished
due to lack of water.
In spite of all these sad memories,
he pressed on towards the cross,
his eyes fixed on its potent light.
There were rotting odorous carcasses
and sun-bleached pale bones
of beasts that had perished,
scattered over the landscape
and sometimes blocking his path.
He didn’t look at them,
but simply walked around them.
He tried to ignore the stench.
On his periphery vision he could see
vultures clustered around a fresh carcass,
tearing chunks of meat from it
with their hooked beaks,
before greedily swallowing the chunks.
He felt sure that the vultures were appraising him,
asking themselves if his meat was any good
since he was so thin.
From the devilish gleam in the vultures’ eyes,
and their deathly cackles,
they were praying for his fall,
for he must’ve seemed moribund
in their jaundiced eyes.
Vultures relish taunting a troubled soul.
Despite sensing with his five senses
the close presence of death,
he pressed on towards the cross,
his eyes fixed on its potent light.
He could feel their eyes,
the wicked eyes of the vultures,
piercing his bare back
as he strode across the vast cracked dry ground.
The cracked ground was gradually replaced
by acres and acres of sun-bleached pale sand.
With each step he grimaced and grunted
because the sand was superheated
and it seared the soles of his bare feet.
Then the sand became less dense
and his legs began to sink into it
up to his knees.
Each step he took now
required great amounts of strength
for him to keep pulling each leg out of the loose sand.
His thirst was now as intense as the heat
of the sweltering sun above him.
When he was ready to give up and collapse,
he saw a well
and a man in white shining clothes
sitting beside the well.
The man was glowing with the same light
that the cross had glowed with.
‘Sir, I’ve come a long way and I’m thirsty,’
said the thirsty man.
‘Please, Sir, allow me to fetch some water from your well
and I’ll drink it and not die from thirst.’
The man in glowing white clothes said:
‘Whoever drinks this water will get thirsty again,
but whoever drinks the water that I will give him
will never be thirsty again.
The water that I will give him will become in him a spring
which will provide him with life-giving water
and give him eternal life.’
‘Sir,’ the thirsty man said, ‘give me that water!
Then I will never be thirsty again,
nor will I have to come here to draw water.’
© Denis Kabi, 2011
