Hera Oyomba By - Otieno Jamboka

“The river does not have a before,” Hera replied. She stood, and the water dripped from her ankles like melted garnets. “Tell your father I will come at dawn. But he must bring me three things: a hair from a dead child, the tooth of a virgin, and the shadow of a liar.”

“I have brought what you asked,” he wheezed.

“Your father killed my first husband,” Hera said quietly. “He sent the crocodile with a charm tied to its tail.”

Odembo found his father’s body an hour later, curled like a fetus at the edge of the lake. The leather pouch lay empty beside him. And Hera Oyomba was gone, leaving only footprints that filled with water as soon as they were made.

“Woman,” he said, “they say you speak to the river.”

That was when Hera Oyomba removed her necklace—a string of cowrie shells and the knucklebone of a python. She placed it on the ground and began to sing. Not a song of healing. A song of remembering.

“You think the river is a fool,” Hera said.

Hera did not look up. “The river speaks to me. There is a difference.”