Hopeless as it’s beginning to seem without the elder’s lead, the dance continues. Chanting, stamping, every person keeps in time, as strings of shells which dangle from their ankles, rattle to a timeless beat. Owab, carried by the rhythm of the dance, wills himself on, inhaling the powerful scent of the sacred herbs smouldering on the remnants of the fading fire.
They cannot fail. Without the Rain Bull, the land will turn to dust and the group will be driven from the place they call home.
Far into the night
they dance on through scented smoke;
waiting for a sign.
Previous episodes of this little African adventure are here.
Written in response to two challenges:
I also set myself the additional challenges of confining my piece to 100 words exactly and writing in the haibun form. Just for fun!
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