The Boy Who Brought Thunder. Lisa Walker

      

      Mkuki na Nyota Publishers Ltd

       Nyerere Road, Quality Plaza Building

       P. O. Box 4246

       Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

       www.mkukinanyota.com

      © Lisa Walker & Adrian Coyne, 2012

       Illutrations by Cloud Chatanda

      First Edition 2012

      eISBN 978-9987-08-109-7

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

       or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, or be

       otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

      My name is Furaha. I live in Tanzania with my Mama in a

       small village called Kwala. I never knew my father. He died

       many years ago but my Mama smiles when she ever talks

       about him. People always say that I have my mother’s shining

       brown eyes and my father’s strong chin, my father’s wisdom and my mother’s

       patience.

      We live in a two-room house that my great-grandfather built. He built it with

       mud and stick walls, and a strong tin roof. My mother says that many years

       ago our home was considered to be one of the most beautiful in the village.

       Sadly, over many trying years, it has begun to fall apart. One day I shall help

       her in repairing it so that it is as lovely as it was in the old days.

      Back when my great-grandfather was alive, he was a very important member

       of the village community. One of his most valuable possessions was a huge,

       beautifully-decorated drum. He would beat it to call village meetings, “Boom!

       Boom! Boom!” When people heard this thunderous sound, they would gather

       in his compound. When my great-grandfather died, the drum was passed to

       his son, who passed it on to his son, and finally to me.

      “This drum has great power!” Mama tells me. “It carries

       the voice of the gods.”

      Carved around

       the barrel of the

       drum are pictures

       of the gods and

       spirits of our tribe.

       I remember Mama

       teaching me the

       gods’ stories even

       before I could speak

      “Look, Furaha,” she

       would say, pointing to

       the figures on the side

       of the drum. “This

       one pulls the sun

       across the sky, and

       this one makes the

       stars shining every

       night. Each god has

       a different job,” she

       would explain, “and

       together they create

       harmony and balance

       on Earth.”

      By the time I was five, I knew the stories as well as she did, and I began

       sharing them with my friends.

      Mama and I earn our living from maize flour. Every morning, we wake up

       before sunrise to make ugali from the flour. “Use your muscles, Furaha!”

       Mama laughs, “or you will be eating the burnt parts for breakfast, lunch, and

       dinner!”

      Laughing, I flex my arms for her and pound away at the porridge. Stir, stir,