The sun hung high in the sky, merciless and unforgiving, casting a harsh light over the village. The air was thick with dust, and the dry heat pressed down like a weight. Children wandered along the narrow, red dirt road, their feet kicking up little clouds of dust with each step. Even their play was listless, as if the heat had drained the joy from their games. The village lay silent, save for the occasional caw of a crow and the faint rustle of dry leaves. It was a place where hope seemed to evaporate under the relentless sun.
Ama Serwa sat on a wooden stool outside her mud house, her gaze fixed on the barren horizon. Her face, lined with deep wrinkles, spoke of years of hardship, each crease a chapter in a life lived without much comfort. Her gray hair, wrapped loosely in a faded headscarf, shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Her hands, rough and calloused from years of work, rested on her knees, but her thoughts wandered far away.
The children had left for the school earlier that morning, but Ama knew that they did not go to learn; they went out of routine. The teacher, Mr. Baah, was often absent, and when he did come, he would scold the children with impatience, the smell of palm wine lingering in the air. There was little motivation for the children, who sat at their desks and listened to the same dull lessons. No sweetness waited for them there, just like there was no sweetness in the parched land that stretched beyond the village.
Ama’s thoughts drifted back to her own childhood on this same soil. The days had not been much different then—dusty roads, a hot sun, and empty promises. She remembered the early days of her marriage to Kofi, a hardworking man with a kind heart. Together, they had faced the struggles of life, making ends meet with whatever little they could find. When a fever swept through the village years ago, Kofi had fallen ill and never recovered, leaving Ama to carry on alone.
Her son, Kwame, had left for the city two years earlier, chasing a dream of a better life. He had promised to send money back, to come and take her away from the constant hunger and struggle. But the city had swallowed him whole; she hadn’t heard from him since the day he left. Each night, she prayed for a sign, some word from him, but silence always answered her.
Ama’s granddaughter, Akosua, approached from behind the house, carrying a bowl of cassava. She was a bright-eyed girl of twelve, but her face now bore a seriousness far beyond her years. “Nana, when will the rain come?” she asked, glancing up at the sky.
Ama shook her head. “The rain will come when it chooses,” she replied, though her heart held little faith in the words.
A figure appeared on the road—a young woman with a baby tied to her back. It was Adwoa, a neighbor. “Mama, I beg you for water,” she whispered, her voice weak. Ama handed her the last bit from the clay pot, knowing there was no more.
“There is no sweetness here,” Ama thought, watching Adwoa walk away. The dry wind blew, and the dust settled back on the road. They could only wait for rain that never came. Until then, they endured.
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