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The Day the World Stood Still
An African Folktale
There is a river that runs between the land of the living and the dead. It’s cold waters are replenished by all of the tears that fall to the earth, shed in memory of loved ones that would never return. By the banks of this river, there is a harbor for departing souls waiting for Kusamo — the lone oarsman that rows a wooden canoe and collects yewa cowries from those awaiting the passage. These yewa cowries are a token that death bequeaths every man in order to pay their fare from the land of the living to the land of the dead. Except for Asewaseyin the God of gods, no other being had ever seen Kusamo’s face, not even the many smaller gods that consulted Asewaseyin in the hallowed chamber of the gods where the fate of men was decided; or any of Kusamo’s many passengers who only caught a glimpse of his outstretched hands where they placed their fares before crossing into the unknown. In both the land of the living and the land of the dead, Kusamo remained the faceless oarsman of the river of tears.
And this way, while men plough and rest, and trough and crest, Kusamo continues to collect yewa cowries in the realm of memories, beyond the reach of human thought. Mirthlessly, he rows his canoe across the river of tears below eternally purple skies — carrying one person at a time to the other side and returning empty to to the long line of…
