Were it not for the tail-end post-Covid-19 management of the disrupted calendar, schools would have closed to the once-upon-a-time rhythm of agricultural seasons.
This would have been the first time, in a long time, of reliving the experience during the era of climate change. There are signs, this season, that rivers, including Nyando, are returning to their courses.
Once upon a time, when schools closed in April, children would help their parents and guardians with weeding. They would bring the harvest home when they closed in August. They would be picking cotton in the morning, and grading the produce in the afternoon, during the December school break. The rhythm of the seasons was predictable, especially in the Lake Basin.
The April-August-December schedule fell apart when unpredictable rainfall patterns became the norm. The rains come too late or fall for too short a time to support a harvest. Or sometimes storms and flooding destroy the hope of villagers.
The closure of schools two weeks ago sounded like a statement from the Ministry of Education to learners: 'Go back home to help your parents with the weeding: It's good for food security. Also plant trees – more trees. It's good for the environment.'
The learnings answer the practical expectations of the competence-based curriculum. They also confirm the urgency of re-greening the desecrated landscapes.
There is deserved excitement. Every day of rains renews the faith of the peasantry in the generosity of nature. When it rains, hope grows of a better harvest. This comes after four failed rain seasons across the country.
Even weaver birds are excited. May is their season to gather building materials in readiness for the coming harvest. The twig-by-beak deposits of leaves will soon turn out nests atop trees.
The birds have mapped out strategic trees on which to build their nests. The sites are within striking distance of promising farms.
The birds shall reap before peasants harvest. Once done, they will fly away when the weaverlings have matured enough to flap their wings.
After four consecutive seasons of failed crop, the current hope is deserved. The land that was swarming with dust, dry and dreary, is back to natural green.
The lush green, and continuing rains, now running into the second month, are exciting villagers. Their relatives in urban areas are also hopeful. But there have been two hailstorms that left villagers afraid and anxious.
Hailstones pierce the leaves of flourishing crops, leaving the plants leaning in the direction of the storm, after eroding topsoil. Farmers have to return to their farms to straighten the plants.
They hope there would be no more hailstorms when beans, maize, millet, groundnuts and other crops begin to flower. Such incidents would disrupt pollination, thus compromising a promising harvest.
You can take the villager out of the village, but you cannot take away the village in them. When urban villagers call home or receive calls from upcountry, the salutation is always predictable.
'Is it raining in the village?' Or 'Did it rain?' Or 'Has it rained?' are the usual questions of hope and fear. It does not matter where the urban villager comes from, the salutation is always the same.
For the Idakho of Ingo it is, 'Imbula Ikhupanga?' For the Banyala of Luhya country, it is, 'Efula ikwa?' From Bunyore, the land of traditional rainmakers, the salutation is, 'Imbula ikwinzanga?' 'Koth chue?' is the ringtone of the lake people.
There is hope when it rains because there would be food in the village. A good harvest means the urban villager will save rural remittances. There is fear when rain fails.
The money sent to villagers will double. Buying maize by the two-kg tin, or water by the 20-litre jerrycan, is expensive. It means money which would otherwise be saved buys relief food for hungry relatives.
Let it rain.
