You may not remember me, but I am the oldest woman in the Village of the Empty Wells. The last well in the village is about to dry up and I must make my arrangements. I know that when the last drop of water seeps into the sand, my time is up. And I will sit down with my granddaughter and dictate my dirge. My funeral song will be my long sword from my dry, dusty grave.
When the last spring in my land can bring forth no more water, I shall ask them what crime I committed that condemned me to a life to drudgery and despair. I shall ask them why they made so many promises but kept so very little. They tell me a tonne of money was buried to sprout water, but the only trickle of water I see is when the clouds weep with despair on my dry, dusty dungeon.
I want to know why in an eon, the only change I see is that I trudged to fetch water with earthenware, while my granddaughters trek to fetch water with plastic ware. I shall seek to know why they built a mighty dam close to the Village of the Empty Wells, but refuse to give us any drip of water, and why they took over our ancestral farmlands to build the monstrosity that floods our fields and our graveyards. My ancestors still rage at that sacrilege.
When the river squeezes out its very last drop, and my herds can eke out nothing to moisten their tongues with, I know the end of my ancestral birthplace has come forth. So in my requiem, I shall seek to know what happened to the promises of water I cannot see, nor scent. I shall ask why they diverted my ancestral stream to feed the weir that is of no use to anyone in the Village of the Empty Wells.
In my litany of lament, I shall ask why they condemned my offspring and I to walking many miles each day to fetch brackish, muddy water that give us typhoid, cholera and dysentery. I will demand answers to why they let my sons drink water from the river from which they get guinea worm that leaves them useless for farm work. I shall ask why they let our husbands go blind from river blindness and not able to do any more farm work.
My funeral chant will spare no one. My long sword from the grave shall seek to know why my nephew who fled the Village of the Empty Wells for the city still ended up on the fringes of a city with no water. He tells me he buys every single drop of water; he fled the village for lack of water but ended up in a city with no water. I walk many miles to fetch diseased water; he uses hard-earned money to buy diseased water. The oasis he sought turned out to be a mirage; a milestone of misery.
My lamentation shall seek answers to why a land that is blessed with so much water and so much rainfall cannot give me water to drink. They must explain why my with so much abundance, water-borne diseases still kill so many. I shall ask about the charade of the time they brought the whole world to see a new borehole that stopped spewing the moment their motorcade left. It is now just another empty well in a village of many empty wells.
From the million miles of misery that is my lot, my back is bent, my feet calloused, my neck sore. But I refused to be cowed. I shall ask them why they stole so much just so they can pamper their palates with French bottled water, while my grandchildren choke their ways to this world on murky, muddy waters. When my time is up, the courage that eluded me for a lifetime will converge to give me voice. And I shall ask plenty of questions.
When the last well in the Village of the Empty Wells dries up, I shall spare no one. With my lone voice from the shallow sands that shall shortly swallow me, my funeral song shall say to them: only if there was no death; only if there was no ill health; only if they had gold in their breath; only if there was no end to the earth; only then would I envy vast their wealth. In time, I shall welcome them to the dry, dusty dead earth.
When the last spring in my land can bring forth no more water, I shall ask them what crime I committed that condemned me to a life to drudgery and despair. I shall ask them why they made so many promises but kept so very little. They tell me a tonne of money was buried to sprout water, but the only trickle of water I see is when the clouds weep with despair on my dry, dusty dungeon.
I want to know why in an eon, the only change I see is that I trudged to fetch water with earthenware, while my granddaughters trek to fetch water with plastic ware. I shall seek to know why they built a mighty dam close to the Village of the Empty Wells, but refuse to give us any drip of water, and why they took over our ancestral farmlands to build the monstrosity that floods our fields and our graveyards. My ancestors still rage at that sacrilege.
When the river squeezes out its very last drop, and my herds can eke out nothing to moisten their tongues with, I know the end of my ancestral birthplace has come forth. So in my requiem, I shall seek to know what happened to the promises of water I cannot see, nor scent. I shall ask why they diverted my ancestral stream to feed the weir that is of no use to anyone in the Village of the Empty Wells.
In my litany of lament, I shall ask why they condemned my offspring and I to walking many miles each day to fetch brackish, muddy water that give us typhoid, cholera and dysentery. I will demand answers to why they let my sons drink water from the river from which they get guinea worm that leaves them useless for farm work. I shall ask why they let our husbands go blind from river blindness and not able to do any more farm work.
My funeral chant will spare no one. My long sword from the grave shall seek to know why my nephew who fled the Village of the Empty Wells for the city still ended up on the fringes of a city with no water. He tells me he buys every single drop of water; he fled the village for lack of water but ended up in a city with no water. I walk many miles to fetch diseased water; he uses hard-earned money to buy diseased water. The oasis he sought turned out to be a mirage; a milestone of misery.
My lamentation shall seek answers to why a land that is blessed with so much water and so much rainfall cannot give me water to drink. They must explain why my with so much abundance, water-borne diseases still kill so many. I shall ask about the charade of the time they brought the whole world to see a new borehole that stopped spewing the moment their motorcade left. It is now just another empty well in a village of many empty wells.
From the million miles of misery that is my lot, my back is bent, my feet calloused, my neck sore. But I refused to be cowed. I shall ask them why they stole so much just so they can pamper their palates with French bottled water, while my grandchildren choke their ways to this world on murky, muddy waters. When my time is up, the courage that eluded me for a lifetime will converge to give me voice. And I shall ask plenty of questions.
When the last well in the Village of the Empty Wells dries up, I shall spare no one. With my lone voice from the shallow sands that shall shortly swallow me, my funeral song shall say to them: only if there was no death; only if there was no ill health; only if they had gold in their breath; only if there was no end to the earth; only then would I envy vast their wealth. In time, I shall welcome them to the dry, dusty dead earth.
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