Ama walked from her simple hut to the top of the small hill that overlooked her east African village. She watched the silver crescent moon rise into the night sky and tried to remember his face. Sometimes she thought she could picture him, but then the image would dissolve like mist in the early morning sun. How she wished she had a photograph of him, but no one in the village even had a camera. Somewhere inside her she had the hope that he was still alive, but in her heart she knew he would never return. But every night she walked to the top of the hill and waited for him.
He was such a strong young man, with zest for life and so courageous. Once, he had single-handedly driven away a rogue lion which had come into the village compound looking for an easy meal. Everyone said how brave he was, and how lucky the beautiful Ama was to have such a wonderful husband. But now he was gone and there was no one to protect her, no one to keep her warm through the cold nights, no one to love.
She remembered clearly how the hunting party returned early one afternoon. Usually as they approached the village, the women could hear their men singing and laughing, telling tales of their exploits. That day they walked in silence. She looked for his face among them but where was he? Where was he? The wife of the head man took Ama away; screaming and crying, hitting herself in despair. All the men had found was his shield, some blood-stained clothing, and his small purse of coins. What use were those things to her, she had no need of them.
Ama watched the clouds drift across the moon; her tears falling silently into the dry ground at her feet. He was not returning tonight. She had grown old waiting for him, her once thick black hair was thin and grey, her once beautiful skin, now wrinkled and marked. She just wanted to see his handsome face one more time, before the crescent moon rose in her sky for the last time.