Waiting for Mojadji

A ghostly shimmer of heat rises above sun-parched ground, burned dry by lack of rain.

There is little alive in this motionless, homeless land called a homeland. The once rich soil has split in hexagons of hardened mud, pitted and worn like an old Umkhulu on his death bed.

Once a beauty, the withered girl-woman clutches her whole life in her arms. She cradles the shrunken child, holding firmly, afraid to look away in case, in that brief moment, he is lost. She swats the buzzing flies off her child’s mucous-hardened face.

The child gazes up dully, never blinking. Its breath is harsh, gasping for moisture in the dessicated air. Her fingers reach out, carefully drawing it closer to her chest. Like the land, her breast is flat and dry but gives her precious daughter one last chance to live, to smile, to thrive, to survive the day.

And so she sits, exhausted, waiting. Waiting for Mojadjji. Waiting for the rain queen to show her mercy.