The dry and cracked earth spoke what the locals dared not to say: their home was dying. Never ending footpaths crisscrossed each other like careless drawings. It was mid-December, yet it had been weeks since rain clouds had last gathered over the town. As far as the eye could see, this part of the province had no trees except for sparse shrubs and distant mango trees with drooping leaves. After depleting the forest, the charcoal burners had indiscriminately gone after every other tree in sight to satisfy the market demand.
Houses, mostly made of sun-dried bricks, sprawled the land that was once a thick forest. Some were spread farther apart while some were clustered together. Behind some of the houses, the land was tilled in neat rows with maize seeds underground, safe from the prying birds.
One of the houses with a small cultivated backyard, was on the verge of collapse. Smoke escaped into the evening sky through its shut door and dilapidated roof. Inside, smoke from the twigs on the brazier choking the small room, a son stared angrily at his ailing mother. For over an hour she had pleaded with him. Now, she placed her frail hands on his arm, pleas in her tearful eyes. Five of her other children, circled around the brazier, watched in silence.