Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

His hand trembled as he picked it up. He did not know why. Perhaps because some buried part of him still hoped the words inside were true. He stepped out into the flood. The water was at his ankles. Then his knees. Then his waist. The path he had walked for forty years was gone. He leaned into his staff. Each step was a war against the current. Then his foot slipped. He went under. The current seized him. It rolled him. His sack was torn from his shoulder. His staff was ripped from his grip.