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The Last Footprint

As the leaves succumbed to the red embers beneath them, the fireplace became alive once more - clearing the hut of the fading smoke By Nhamo Muchagumisa The level of the mighty Save River had risen above normal that season, yet the current remained gentle as contrasted with the rushing streams that fed the prodigious mass of flowing water. The water maintained the brown tone of the soils whose silty particles coloured it. Despite its placid gravitation towards the sea, the distance between the surface of the water and the river bed measured up to 15 metres, a death trap beneath the brown carpet of liquid matter. Mr Tsengwa had either miraculously swum across the swollen river, or had surrendered his life to a wet death. The boatman who ferried the people crossing the river had said that Mr Tsengwa had not bought his services. “He came here about thirty minutes ago,” said Mrs Tsengwa in a state of panic. “I did not see him. Probably, I was in my tent, eating my breakfast,” the boatman explained. Mr Tsengwa’s daughter checked the edge of the riverbank, separating the land from the river.

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