The fisherman cast his net — but pulled from the river a child tied up and still alive
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The Fisherman and the River
In the quiet hours of the night, Moanza, a widowed fisherman, cast his nets into the river, hoping for a good catch. But what he pulled from the water was no ordinary fish; it was a small, bound child, still alive. The sight was both terrifying and miraculous. The girl, tied up and abandoned, had somehow survived against all odds. Little did Moanza know that by rescuing her, he was becoming the guardian of a dangerous truth, and her past would one day return to haunt them both.
Moanza’s life had been marked by silence and routine since the death of his wife, Amina, more than a decade ago. He woke before dawn, washed his face with cold well water, and walked the familiar dirt path to the river, surrounded by mango trees and tall grasses. The villagers watched him pass, nodding respectfully but keeping their distance. Moanza was a man of few words, shaped by loss and unfulfilled dreams.
Amina had been a woman with an easy laugh, who sang while cooking and called him her “stubborn old man.” After she passed, silence engulfed their home. The river, once a source of joy, now served as both comfort and punishment. It was the same river that had brought them together, now a reminder of what he had lost. Moanza often thought about his youth, swept away like the tide, taking his dreams with it. He cared for his boat as one would tend to a grave—respectfully and sorrowfully.
Days passed with the river mocking him, returning empty nets. Moanza would stare into the dark waters, whispering to it, “You lost everything too, didn’t you?” The river would answer with its gentle murmur, a reminder of the weight of his years. The few friends who still visited had become quiet, and the village children called him the “old man of the river.” Some believed he spoke to spirits, while others thought the river kept him alive out of pity. But to Moanza, the river was more trustworthy than human mouths. He understood its pain, its currents that took without asking, and whirlpools that swallowed without guilt.
Behind his rough exterior was a heart starved for affection. He longed to be a father, but fate had never granted him that gift. Amina could not have children, and together they had filled that emptiness with love. When she left, the void became immeasurable. Moanza’s loneliness echoed all he had once been. He lived in a simple house made of mud and straw, where the wind crept through cracks, and the fire barely stayed lit. At night, the sound of the river was both comfort and torment.
He spoke to the river like an old friend, asking for strength, sustenance, and courage. He shared fish with neighbors and helped those in need, even when he had almost nothing. The villagers respected him but saw him as someone who had given up on the world. His gaze seemed to see far beyond, perhaps past the waters or deep within himself. There was a sorrowful wisdom in Moanza, the kind only those who have cried alone truly know.
Fate, however, was watching closely. The very river that had stolen his hope was preparing something unexpected. Moanza didn’t know it yet, but his solitude was about to find a voice, and his weary heart would be called to love once more. He believed nothing more could be born from him, that life had shut its doors. But faith, even when wounded, waits and hides like a seed beneath dry earth.
On the day he thought all was lost, the river returned more than a miracle; it returned his reason to live. The sun was rising lazily when Moanza returned to the river, the air smelling of damp earth and mist. He knelt at the edge of the boat, murmuring an old prayer. The current was calm, and the reflection of the sky looked like a cracked mirror of memory. Moanza cast his nets, a choreography between man and fate.
Minutes passed, and the nets began to weigh differently, heavy, as if something below was resisting. He pulled once, twice, and the boat tilted. His heart raced as he held his breath. Among the soaked mesh, a bundle wrapped in dark rags appeared. Moanza’s eyes widened. Initially thinking it was a dead animal, he poked it with the oar, but the bundle moved slightly, releasing a muffled sound—a weak cry.
The fisherman froze, time seeming to stop. He let the oar fall and pulled the ropes with his hands. When the cloth opened, he gasped. A small, pale-skinned baby, trembling with cold, tied with strips of old fabric, lay before him. The child cried weakly, and Moanza felt a wave of compassion wash over him. “For all the saints,” he whispered, “who could throw an angel into the river?”
He knelt in the bottom of the boat, water lapping at his ankles, carefully freeing the baby from her bindings. The cords were tight, cutting into the delicate skin. With trembling hands, he wrapped the child in his thick shirt and held her against his chest, trying to warm her. The baby stopped crying for a moment, and Moanza felt a spark of life ignite within him.
“The river seems to be watching,” he murmured, looking toward the horizon. “If the Lord gave her to me, it must mean He still trusts me.” He rode back, each stroke of the oar a prayer, every drop of sweat a silent promise. When he reached the shore, he ran home with the baby in his arms. Neighbors watched from afar, whispering, “Old Moanza’s gone mad. The river brought him a curse.”
But he didn’t answer anyone; he only held the baby tighter and entered his hut. Inside, the fire lay asleep in ashes. He rekindled the flame and placed the baby near the warmth. He dried her body with a clean cloth and covered her. Yes, it was a girl, breathing with difficulty, but she was alive. Moanza looked at her with a tenderness he didn’t know he still possessed. “You came from the waters, but you don’t belong to the river,” he said softly. “Now you’re my responsibility.”
For hours, he sat by the fire, watching the girl sleep restlessly. The wind rattled the window, and the river outside hummed its ancient song. With each breath the child took, Moanza felt a current shift within him, a tide of memories and faith. Night fell, but he remained, eyes fixed on that small miracle. Fear gripped him—fear of losing the little that remained of himself. But alongside it was something new: hope. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone.
In that house of mud and silence, he understood that life could spring from the murkiest waters. While the girl slept peacefully, Moanza closed his eyes and gave thanks. Fate, which had taken everything from him, was returning something precious. That night, he didn’t dream of fish or the past; he dreamed of the future of the child the river had given him. Alive, breathing, and now sleeping like a promise in his calloused hands.
The rumor spread quickly through the village. By noon, everyone was repeating the same phrase: “Old Moanza found a child in the water.” The market buzzed with voices. Donna Zawadi, who sold corn fritters, swore she saw the fisherman arrive with a bundle clutched tightly to his chest. Mamia, always in a rush, said it was a sign of disaster. Baba Kito, the elder with a white beard, closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as if hearing an ancient warning.
At Sephu, the blacksmith’s forge, young men set their hammers aside to argue. “The river doesn’t give back without asking a price,” Juma spat. “A curse,” replied Baraka, arms crossed. But Asha, the midwife, lifted her chin. “The real curse is a heart that shuts the door to a baby.” Her words rang through the air, and for a moment, the rumor lost its strength.
Mama Chiku, sharp-tongued as ever, climbed two steps on her porch and declared, “It could only be a bad omen who brings a child from the river.” Some made signs of protection while others approached Moanza’s hut with a mix of fear and curiosity, like those watching a storm from behind a window.
When Moanza opened the door, morning light cut across the simple interior. He held the girl, wrapped in a clean cloth, her skin warmed by the low-burning fire. People stepped back, and murmurs turned into a buzzing swarm. Asha stepped forward, touching the baby’s forehead, smelling the old cloth strips still marked with bindings. “She’s alive. That’s what heaven concerns itself with.”
Mama Chiku, irritated by the reverent silence, raised her voice. “This isn’t a good thing. The river gave her back because it didn’t want the curse.” Moanza straightened, his face weathered by sun and years. “If the river gave her to me, it’s because heaven allowed it.”
His words hit the ground like an anchor, and for a second, even the birds seemed to listen. Baba Kito stepped forward slowly, looking at the child, then at Moanza, and finally at the crowd. “Not all water that comes is a flood. Sometimes it’s a spring.” The women exchanged glances, their hearts softening.
Asha remained by the fire, counting the baby’s breaths, while Donna Zawadi brought a bowl of warm milk and a linen cloth. That simple gesture opened the door for others. Baraka offered dry firewood, Juma fetched water, and even Sephu, hands black with soot, left a piece of coal by the door to keep the fire alive. Some still muttered about bad omens, but the child’s brief cry echoed through the room, silencing the ill will.
Holding the child to his chest, Moanza felt a tremor that wasn’t fear; it was care. The house, once empty, now had a new sound, and the village, though divided, couldn’t look away from the miracle that had risen from the water. By late afternoon, the yard in front of the hut looked like a courtyard after rain. Murmurs settled dust.
Asha was the last to leave. “She needs warmth and patience,” she said, rubbing ointment on her hands. “The rest, time and God will take care of.” Moanza nodded, thanked her with a gesture, and went back inside. The crowd slowly dispersed, carrying with them fear, curiosity, and an uncomfortable seed of tenderness.
By the time the sun touched the thatched rooftops, the rumor had already grown legs and reached the neighboring village. Some said the child glowed, others that the net sang. But in truth, there was only a tired man, a rescued girl, and a river that decided to return what the world had tried to lose. Those who heard Moanza quietly repeat to himself understood exactly where he had planted his feet: “If she was given to me by the waters, I accept what heaven allows. Man does not refuse.”
On the first night, Moanza’s house felt even smaller, filled with the sound of wind blowing through the cracks and the child’s intermittent cries. The fisherman paced back and forth, clumsy, like someone walking on unfamiliar ground. He had never cared for a baby before and didn’t know where to start. He tried offering warm goat’s milk in a gourd, but the girl coughed, refusing it.
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