Listen to the Night

“Mama, Mama, come quickly!”

Peter Matola’s mother hurried to his small cot. “What is it, my son?” she whispered. “What has awakened you?” She bent over him like a comforting shadow in the dim light of the room.

“Mama, listen to the night. Do you hear it? It’s too quiet, too still. The darkness lies in wait like Shumba, the lion, when he hunts.”

From the moonlight spilling in through the window, Mrs. Matola could see that Peter’s eyes were round with fear. His small face was carved with lines of worry, and the white crescent of his smile was hidden in a frown.

“Shumba is sleeping, my son,” she said. “You must sleep, too. Welcome the quiet of night. It is like shade in the hot noonday sun.” Mrs. Matola touched her son’s cheek, smoothing out the lines of worry, and Peter closed his eyes.

“Mama, Mama, come quickly!”

Once more Mrs. Matola hurried to her small son’s bed. “What is it now, Peter?”

“Mama, listen to the night! The hyena is screaming. He bites at the night sky and tears holes in it. See where the sun flashes through! Then Shumba roars back, angry at being awakened!”

Again Mrs. Matola soothed her son. “That is only the shrieking of the wind before a storm. It is only the lightning flashing and the thunder roaring. Rain is coming, good rain to help the corn grow and to give the cattle water to drink. Listen!”

Soon Peter heard drops of rain whisper on the dry grass roof of the Matolas’ imba, their round thatched hut. Rain splattered on the dusty ground, thumping softly like the sound of his father’s wooden drum. It was like the steady beating of a heart.

“Now sleep, my son, so you will grow up big and strong enough to help your father herd the cattle. Night is a time of rest for every creature, even small boys like you.”

Peter closed his eyes. But still he listened to the night.

When the rain stopped, the darkness was filled with the shrill, chirping songs of a hundred tiny voices in a hundred tiny puddles. Mrs. Matola smiled, waiting for her son to call her to come and listen to this new night sound. She would tell him, “Do not be afraid, Peter. That is only Dacha, the frog. He is very small, but hear how bravely he and his brothers sing to the darkness. That is why our grandfathers chose him to be the guardian of dreams for the Shona* people. Dacha’s songs frighten away nightmares and bring peaceful sleep.”

As Dacha and his brothers sang, the last rain dripped softly from the roof. The night air whispered around the Matolas’ small thatched imba. Far away, over the mountains, the last bit of thunder grumbled sleepily, like Shumba returning to bed.

But Peter made no sound at all. When his mother tiptoed close, she saw that Peter had fallen asleep, listening to the night. And his smile told her that Dacha’s songs had filled his dreams with happiness.