The Spider That Hid Rain (Episode 2)

Dojo and Rog approaching Bayoka.

The Spider That Hid Rain 

Episode 2: The Mystery of the Missing Rain 

It had been weeks since the mist appeared over Bayoka, spread over the forest cover like one gigantic cloak. At first, the villagers of Nandi had thought little of it, gotten used to it and brushed it off as the strangest weather phenomenon they had ever seen. They went about their usual business. 

But then, something odd came tagging along. The rains stopped. The skies, always dappled with clouds heavy with the promise of rain, were now an endless stretch of pale blue, stark and unchanging.  

At first, the villagers dismissed it as a delay—a momentary hiccup in the rhythm of nature. Yet, day by day, the clouds grew fewer, their soft, billowing forms retreating to the edges of the horizon until there was nothing left but an empty, colorless expanse. The sun, unchallenged, burned brighter and hotter, its golden rays now a harsh glare that bleached the once-vibrant fields. 

The earth beneath Nandi began to change. The soil, once soft and rich, perfect for planting, grew harder with each passing day. Farmers, whose tools had once easily broken into the fertile ground, now strained against it, their shovels and hoes bouncing off soil baked by the relentless heat. The moist, earthy scent that rose with every turn of the spade vanished, replaced by a dry, lifeless dust that clung to everything.  

Crops that had stood tall and green began to falter. Their leaves curled inward, turning brittle and pale and stalks that had swayed gracefully in the wind now sagged toward the ground, lifeless and stiff. 

The streams that wove like silver threads through the valley began to shrink. Where water once bubbled and sang, only thin, shallow trickles remained, exposing rocks that had long been hidden beneath the surface. Children, who used to splash and play along the banks, now stood solemnly by, watching the receding waters with confused eyes. Birds that once flocked to the stream for refreshment no longer came and their songs faded from the air.  

The once-lush landscape of Nandi, a place where nature had always thrived in harmony, now showed the first signs of struggle, its vibrant life dimming under the weight of the missing rains. 

Every sunset, Dojo and Rog would watch their mother take a stroll in the garden, checking on the withering yams or potatoes or beans, while their dad visited their hungry livestock. Their mother would wipe her brow with the back of her hand and sigh deeply. 

The once-vibrant family garden and farm, which had always provided enough food for their family and more, was now a barren patch of earth. The soil, dry and powdery, could not hold onto the water the family tried to pour onto it. The plants, starved of moisture, shriveled and died. 

Around them, the village told the same story. Neighbors who used to greet each other with cheerful smiles now moved in silence, their faces drawn and their shoulders hunched. The sound of children playing had disappeared; their laughter replaced by the rustle of dry leaves skittering across the ground. 

The streams that wove and meandered through Nandi kept shrinking, their once-clear waters turning into muddy trickles barely deep enough for one to scoop a cup full of water. The air carried a constant smell and taste of dust and the sun burned hotter each day, unrelenting in its glare. Meanwhile, the mist-like form over Bayoka clung tightly. 

Dojo and Rog’s family continued to gather every evening for dinner, but now there were no more stories, only desperate rumblings about the harsh weather and the dying crops. The meals kept getting smaller and smaller—usually a small bowl of boiled cassava or yam or potato and a thin soup of water and salt. The dining table, which had once been a place of celebration and plenty, now carried an unspoken heaviness. 

One evening while they ate silently, their father broke the quiet moment. “From now on,” he said, his voice steady but heavy with worry, “we must eat less. What we have left in the granary must last us as long as possible.” 

Rog glanced at her small plate. “But... what if it rains tomorrow?” she asked quietly. 

Her mother set down her spoon, her face tight with exhaustion. “We’ve been saying that for weeks, Rog. And still, no rain has come. We must prepare for the worst.” There was a pause. Dojo and Rog stared at each other worriedly. 

Then Dojo looked up, frowning. “The mist—do you think it’s stopping the rain?” 

His father hesitated before answering, “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but it’s been there since the rains stopped. Maybe it is, maybe it’s just a coincidence—who knows?” 

His mother shook her head slightly, but she didn’t speak. Then they fell silent again, the only sounds were the clattering of the plates and wooden forks. 

Weeks piled into months, passing by slowly and painfully. The villagers would look to the next week and the next for signs—just signs—of some clouds. But nothing appeared, nothing came to promise rain. 

Then the drought settled in, tightening its grip on Nandi. The lush valley, once bursting with life, became a scorched wasteland. Fields that had glowed green and golden now lay cracked and barren, their soil splitting under the relentless sun. 

The air was thick with dust, carried by winds that had turned harsh and biting. The streams dried up completely, leaving only rocky beds where water had once flowed. Animals, once plump and lively, now stumbled weakly through the village, their ribs visible and their movements sluggish. 

In the distance, Bayoka stood under its eternal shroud of mist. The villagers had long stopped looking to it for answers. They were too consumed by the immediate struggle of survival. 

Dojo walked through the village with Rog one afternoon, their bare feet kicking up small clouds of dust with each step. They passed a neighbor’s house and saw a goat lying motionless in the shade of a tree in the compound. 

“It’s gone,” Rog whispered, her voice trembling, while she hid on the other side of Dojo as if to escape death herself. 

Dojo nodded grimly. “The animals can’t survive this,” he said, “and neither can we, not for much longer.” 

The chief called for a village meeting in the square. The people of Nandi arrived slowly, dragging themselves laboriously to the shade of the big oak tree that was used for meetings. Their faces, which had once looked happy and healthy, were now pale and bony, contorted and sad. Some children cried; some sat quietly, malnourished and weak and most came clinging to their parents, their wide eyes reflecting hunger and fear. 

The chief stood on a raised platform of logs of wood, his face shadowed by worry. “We must come together,” he began, his voice firm despite the strain in his tone, “this drought has tested us, but we cannot let it break us. For thousands of generations, here in Nandi, we have always stood together. That spirit of togetherness has kept us strong.” He paused, cleared his throat, and scanned the people’s faces. 

“That spirit, friends,” the chief continued, “is under test more than ever before. We can only survive this if we remain together. And for that matter, I’m calling upon you, friends, those who still have food left in their granaries—please share with neighbors whose granaries have run dry.” 

The people murmured. One old man rose to his feet and raised his hand. 

“Yes, Koro,” the chief called out to him. “Please, let’s be quiet for a moment,” the chief urged, calling people to order. The murmurs died down. 

Mr. Koro stood up, his frail frame trembling slightly as he leaned on a walking stick. “You raise a good point, chief and to supplement it, I propose that we place a big basket here for anyone with food to share. Let them bring it by so that those who need it can have access.” 

The people murmured again and some nodded as Koro resumed his seat. 

“That is a great point, Koro,” the chief replied. “I will have the basket placed here after the meeting. Kindly, bring by food to share with our neighbors who have run dry.” Some nodded; others clapped faintly. 

“And the animals,” the chief continued. “I suggest that instead of burying them, let's have them slaughtered and the meat shared with neighbors. These are desperate times, friends; we have to survive on whatever we can.” 

Murmurs spread through the crowd. Some nodded in agreement. 

“What about the mist?” an elder asked, her voice frail, “it’s been here since the rain stopped. It’s not natural.” 

The chief turned toward Bayoka, his gaze lingering on the thick, shimmering veil that hung over the forest. “We don’t know what it is,” he said “but we can’t sit here waiting for answers. We must endure.” 

That night, as the village fell silent, Dojo sat by the window of their small house, staring at the mist. “I’m going to the forest,” he said suddenly. 

Rog, sitting nearby, looked up in shock. “What? You can’t go there! It’s too dangerous!” 

“I have to, Rog. No one is talking about the mist over Bayoka,” Dojo insisted. “What if the mist is stopping the rain? What if we can do something about it?” 

Rog frowned, crossing her arms. “If you insist on doing this, then I’m coming with you.” 

“No, no, Rog,” Dojo said firmly, “it’s too dangerous. You know that. I can’t risk this with you.” 

“I’m not staying behind. I’m coming with you, Dojo,” Rog insisted. 

“No, you can’t. You’ll just slow me down,” Dojo responded firmly. 

“Okay, if you don’t let me come, I’ll tell Mother and Father,” Rog said, her voice defiant. “You’re not going alone,” she added. 

Dojo sighed, knowing he couldn’t argue with her. “Fine. But you must do exactly what I say.” 

“I promise, I will,” she said, raising her hand as if to swear. 

That evening, Dojo and Rog packed a small bag with what little they could spare—a flask of water and a handful of dried yams. Before dawn, they slipped out of the house and walked toward Bayoka. 

The mist rippled faintly as they approached, its edges curling like tendrils. Dojo stopped at the forest’s edge, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do this,” he said. 

Then they disappeared into the forest as everything fell silent. 

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