An African village squats on the side of a hill; a sprawl of mud huts and dusty soil.

Tribesmen gather and gossip, gesture at parched fields, ruminate on past droughts.

Women balance clay jars on heads and follow baked paths towards the river. The water trickles, brackish and brown.

Corn is crushed into coarse powder and boiled into thin porridge. Supplies are low and crops stunted.

The heat sears and children wilt in patches of shade, listless and dehydrated. The chief curses the sun.

Day follows night and night follows day. An endless cycle of hopelessness as crops shrivel.

A missionary arrives and talks with the chief. “We’ll bring a tanker of water.” he promises, “And I’ll pray for rain.”

The chief shakes his head. “The witch doctor has thrown the bones and called upon our ancestors. They are angry with us.”

The missionary smiles, “I’ll still pray ... and you might be surprised.”

Dawn paints the sky red as clouds boil and rumble. Raindrops splatter and soak into thirsty ground. The village rejoices.

by Debbie Roome