The river was muddy and turbulent.

It swept down from the highlands in a brown flood, carrying with it the red earth of the hills.

But on the banks that were not reedy, the river-banks were lined with people, washing clothes.

Women beat the wet garments against flat stones; children splashed in the shallows.

It was a scene of life and labour, of people making the best of what they had.


The river was not always like this. In the dry season, when the rains had long departed, the water ran clear and slow over the pebbled bed, and one could see the tiny fish darting between the stones. The women said it was a different river then, a gentle one, a friend.


But when the rains came — and they came with a fury that shook the very hills — the river transformed. It became a monster, a brown and roaring force that carried trees and sometimes even huts down from the highlands. It was then that the people understood the river's power, and they kept their distance.


And yet, even in its rage, the river gave life. The floodwaters deposited rich silt on the banks, and the crops that grew there were the best for miles around. Maize and cassava flourished in the dark soil, and the banana trees bent low with their heavy fruit.


There is a wisdom in the way the river people live. They do not fight the river, nor do they worship it. They accept it — its moods, its gifts, its dangers — as they accept the sun and the rain and the turning of the seasons. The river is not their enemy. It is their neighbor, their provider, their teacher.


I think of them sometimes, the women beating clothes on the stones, the children laughing in the shallows. They know something that we, in our clean and ordered cities, have forgotten. That life is not about controlling the river. It is about learning to live with it.