They hopefully look into the sky each day; their ears were keen on welcoming the sound of the latter rain. It had been two months since the seeds were buried in the soil and still no sign of the new rain. The dew have done their duty, the warmth of the earth thrust the plants to its surface, the sun had not been left out. Only now, the rain, soft and refreshing did they pray for. The crops needed to grow, on it depended the groceries shop, the blacksmith’s wife’s broth, the mayor king’s meal, the road side buka, the malaam at the market and the new wife’s seduction. The payment for laborers, machinery and implements were not left out.
The farmer’s wife is unhappy, the children wear weary faces. They ate the last meal but the sky will not bulge. It was a curse! A curse to dwell like this, in anticipation, hopes and despair, no rain means rotten crops and no supply to the groceries; the blacksmith’s wife vegetable broth will not serve and on the king’s table will be no banquet. No licking of fingers and smacking of lips, no battle of tongue and teeth, fork and plate, no seduction of spoon and pot – no industry.
No rain for the farmer meant dearth and drought for the down.
So, all summer they waited, groaning but the arrogant sky will give no wink. Hope flickered and weakened. The crops turned pale, a lemon green color and the earth rusty beneath. The roots begged for life to ease the anguish of the farmer but the sky never blinked. It seemed to be on a vacation not wanting intrusion. It stinker and lingered but never tinkered.
Head bowed, shoulders caved in, he made for home to the pity of kin and household. “The farmer will know no harvest this season” they whispered. “He had planted in spring when the rain was ceasing. It had been a wrong calculation, now he must live with the regrets”
Summer will pour no rain, the sky was. “He was the unwise farmer” they mocked.
Through the walls of his house he listened to their mumbling. The pain of their words ate like cancer. He had put all his seeds to the soil, expecting the early summer rains. But he would have no rain; it was indeed a tale in summer, a bitter one.
But even summer has sweet tales because the sky’s do melt on the heat of summer and so he had it on a summer day. The sky poured and bellowed and flooded the earth like aliens. The roofs breathed, the earth exhaled and belched, the leaves smiled like the sun blooming in a summer day. They became green again; the roots grew rotund and dug into the earth.
“And so the farmer will have yield in a tale told in summer. Miracles do happen in summer” they whispered and he listened, his face aglow with fresh hope.
We have more delightful stories you might find a worthy read. See Eavesdrop: Chronicles of a Hawker.
© SL Kreativez, 2017.