By Neema Komba
Every summer when the river dries up, mother and I go fishing. Mother stands in the middle of the river where there is nothing but sand, I wait by the bank. She bows her head to cry as if her tears would fill it up again. Amid her crying she yells my name. “Rama! Grab a pole; get your brother out of here!” I throw in my fishing line, and pull as hard as I can. Today, I stopped to catch my breath. Mother got so angry, she almost struck me. “He got heavy,” I panted, “It’s been ten years since he drowned.”