Chimponda and the Talking River

The Boy with the Mark

Chimponda was different from the other children in Nsunda. He was born with a spiral-shaped mark on his left shoulder, a mark that had been the cause of hushed whispers and wary glances since the day he came into the world.

His mother, Maliya, always smiled and called it a blessing.

“The spirits have chosen you,” she would say, kissing the mark before tucking him into bed.

But his father, Jekesani, a hardened fisherman, was not so sure.

“No child is born like this unless the spirits have plans for him,” he would mutter. “And the spirits’ plans are never simple.”

Chimponda himself had no idea what the mark meant, but he felt its importance. He had always been drawn to the river, spending hours sitting on its banks, watching the water ripple and swirl. He had the strange feeling that if he listened hard enough, he could hear something beneath the rush of the current—a voice, calling his name.

And on his twelfth birthday, the voice finally spoke.

The Talking River

The moon was high that night, bathing Nsunda in silver light. Chimponda had slipped from his hut, drawn by a feeling deep in his chest, and found himself at the riverbank.

The water was calm, so still it reflected the stars above. But then, it moved.

Not the usual gentle swirls of the current—this was different. The water twisted and rose, forming a shape. Chimponda’s breath caught in his throat as a face appeared in the river, ancient and wise, with glowing eyes that seemed to burn like fire beneath the water.

And then, it spoke.

“Chimponda… come closer.”

His heart pounded, but his feet moved on their own.

“You have been chosen. Nsunda is in danger. The balance has been broken, and the land will suffer.”

Chimponda swallowed hard. “What must I do?”

“Go north, beyond the hills. There lies the lost shrine of the water spirits. Only there can you restore balance. But beware—others seek to destroy it. You must be brave. You must be strong. And you must never lose faith.”

And then, as quickly as it had come, the face disappeared.

The river was silent once more.

The Journey Begins

The next morning, Chimponda rushed to tell Baba Komwe, the village’s oldest and wisest elder, about the river’s message.

Baba Komwe listened with narrowed eyes, nodding slowly. “The Talking River has chosen a champion after all these years,” he murmured. “Then we must listen.”

After much discussion, the village elders agreed that Chimponda must go. But he would not go alone.

His best friend, Mutale, refused to let him go without her.

“You’ll get lost in the hills without me,” she said, grinning as she slung a small satchel over her shoulder.

She was small but fierce, with quick hands and sharper eyes than any hunter in the village. If anyone could help Chimponda survive the journey, it was her.

Baba Komwe handed them each a wooden staff, smooth and polished. “These will guide your steps,” he said. “And remember, the river watches over you.”

And with that, their journey began.

The Spirits of Mbazi Forest

The Mbazi Forest was ancient, its trees towering like giants over the narrow dirt path. The further Chimponda and Mutale walked, the darker it became. The air was thick, heavy, and filled with whispers—not from the wind, but from something else.

Something unseen.

“Do you feel that?” Mutale whispered.

Chimponda nodded. The feeling in his chest, the pull of something powerful, had only grown stronger.

Then, suddenly—a shadow moved.

A great beast stepped from the trees, its ivory tusks glinting in the dim light. It was an Njovu—a massive elephant, but unlike any they had ever seen. Its skin was the color of moonlight, and its eyes burned with knowledge.

“You seek the shrine, but are you worthy?” the Njovu rumbled.

Mutale held her staff tighter. “How do we prove ourselves?”

The great beast raised its trunk, pointing toward a narrow, swaying bridge stretched across a deep chasm.

“Cross, and you may continue. Fail, and the river’s destiny will be lost.”

The Bridge of Spirits

The bridge groaned under their weight as they stepped onto it. Below, the chasm seemed to stretch into endless darkness.

Halfway across, a sudden gust of wind howled through the gorge.

The bridge lurched.

Chimponda’s foot slipped—he gasped, arms flailing—

But Mutale grabbed his hand just in time. “Hold on!” she shouted.

They inched forward, step by step, the planks beneath them creaking and swaying.

And then—solid ground.

The Njovu watched from the other side. “You have courage. The path is open. But beware—greater trials await.”

The Enemy in the Shadows

Beyond the hills, the shrine finally came into view. It was nestled between the rocks, ancient carvings lining its stone walls. But something was wrong.

A group of men stood between them and the shrine—the warriors of Ngondo.

Their leader, Mfundisi, sneered. “You children think you can stop us?”

Before Chimponda could react, the warriors attacked.

Mutale swung her staff, knocking one warrior aside. Chimponda moved like water, dodging and striking.

Mfundisi snarled. “This isn’t over.”

Then he and his men vanished into the trees.

But the shrine was safe.

Restoring the Balance

Chimponda stepped forward, heart pounding. At the shrine’s center, a glowing pool shimmered.

He took the vial of Mukulu’s water and poured it in.

A blinding light erupted.

The shrine trembled. The river sang.

Balance was restored.

The land would heal.

And Chimponda?

He was no longer just a boy.

He was the Guardian of the Talking River.