By Kewagamang Dakamo
The people of Beetsha village had long believed that the moon was a living being. Not just a ball of light floating above their thatched roofs, but a watchful elder who guarded the secrets of the night. They said it listened to whispers, drank dreams, and returned them as light.
But no one knew this better than Neo. She was only sixteen when she first saw the moon move differently, bending lower, almost within reach. It was a night after heavy rains, when the river overflowed and frogs sang as if they were a thousand ceremonial drummers. The clouds had parted, and there it was bright, swollen, and trembling.
She saw the moon, and it saw her. As sixteen as she was, Neo had always been different. She could sense things before they happened, goats bleating just before a jackal struck, her mother’s mood turning sour before the words left her mouth, and even rain clouds gathering two days early. The villagers said she had “night eyes,” eyes that didn’t just see, but read.
That night, the moon tilted its face. Neo froze. She heard it whisper, soft and distant.
“Borrow me.”
She stumbled backwards. “What?” she whispered. “What could I possibly borrow you?”
“No. You must borrow me, child. For one night.”
“Borrow you as in, take you and return you?” She blinked cluelessly. It felt like madness. Intriguing madness. Who borrows the moon? But something deep in her bones urged her forward, she reached out her hand and to her astonishment, the moon peeled a sliver of itself, a crescent shard of light, and placed it in her palm.
Neo’s bones tingled as the piece touched her skin. It was warm. Alive and beating like a heart.
***
By morning, she had hidden the moon-shard inside a calabash under her bed. It was her own little secret, as long as nobody knew the moon was missing a piece. For the first few days, nothing strange happened. But slowly, over the following weeks, Neo noticed the world bending around her.
When she walked through the dusty path, shadows followed her, bowing. When she touched a dead flower, it bloomed again. Even her laughter made chickens lay eggs twice as normal. Children even started calling her Ngwedi, the moon.
One evening, an old woman, blind in both eyes, came tapping her stick through the village. Nobody knew who she was or what she was on about. And for some reason, she stopped at Neo’s hut, sniffed the air, and smiled toothlessly.
“You borrowed something that doesn’t belong to you,” the crone said.
Neo trembled. “Who are you?”
“I am the keeper of forgotten things,” the old woman croaked. “And I have seen this before. A borrowed moon brings blessings, yes but it also brings hunger. The sky does not like to be cheated.”
“Get lost, old woman! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Get lost, get out of here!” She shouted.
***
Soon, the old woman’s warning proved true. The nights grew darker than ink. Without the full moon above, hyenas prowled bolder, lions crept closer, and even people whispered in fear. Crops failed to ripen. Lovers quarreled. Pregnant women miscarried. The village was cursed!
The villagers of Beetsha led by the elders gathered under a baobab tree in deep discussion. “The moon is angry,” they said. “Someone has stolen its heart.”
Neo kept silent, guilt pressing on her chest.
But the shard of moonlight had changed her too much. With it, she had healed her little brother’s fever, saved goats from a venomous snake, and turned dry wells into water. She couldn’t give it back, well not right now… but of course she meant to return it soon enough. She had to keep it a bit longer.
“Beetsha is doomed!” cried one old man.
That night, she dreamed of the moon again. But this time, it looked thin, sickly, almost dying.
“Child… return what you borrowed.”
Neo woke in tears. She hadn’t meant to cause any trouble, she only wanted to help out and she couldn’t do that anymore without the moon’s heart. On the following full moon night, she climbed the tallest hill outside the village, carrying the calabash. The shard glowed fiercely, as if eager to return home.
But before she could lift it, voices rose behind her.
The villagers had followed.
“There! She has it!” someone shouted. “The thief of our light!”
Torches waved. Stones flew. Fear surged in Neo’s throat. She raised the shard defensively and suddenly, the whole hill shone like daylight. The mob froze.
“I never stole it,” she cried. “I only borrowed it! It gave itself to me. And with it, I have healed, protected, and saved! But yes… it must return.”
She lifted the shard toward the sky. The moon pulled, trembling with relief. As the shard floated upward, merging with its mother, light poured over the land like silver rain. Crops shimmered green. Birds sang in the night. And the people gasped in awe.
When it was all done, the moon beamed whole again, full and round. But Neo collapsed, weak as ash. The old crone appeared once more, though no one had seen her climb the hill. She knelt by Neo’s side, her blind eyes glinting strangely.
“Every borrower must pay a debt,” she whispered. “What will you give in return?”
Neo’s lips cracked into a faint smile. “Take my voice… Let me never speak again. Only let the moon stay with my people.”
The crone touched her forehead. And just like that Neo could no longer speak.
***
From that night, she became known as The Silent One of Beetsha. She never uttered a word again, but her eyes still glowed with soft silver. Children followed her, learning to read her gestures, her smiles, her silences. She grew into a woman, a healer, and a guide.
And every full moon, people swore they saw her shadow stretch taller than the baobabs, as if the moon itself bowed in gratitude.
They whispered to their children: “Respect the silent woman. For once, she borrowed the moon and returned it.”
Kewagamang Dakamo is a dedicated nursing professional from Beetsha Village, North West
Botswana. She holds a Diploma in General Nursing and is a licensed practitioner with hands-on experience in patient care, clinical procedures, and community health education. Beyond
healthcare, Kewagamang is passionate about cultural preservation and is an active member of the Voices of Our Ancestors storytelling club, where she documents stories, photography, and
narratives to safeguard culture and nature. Trained at the Nkashi Knowledge Center, she has
enhanced her skills in conservation storytelling, creative writing, and business development.
With a unique blend of healthcare expertise and cultural advocacy, Kewagamang is committed to improving community wellness while celebrating and preserving heritage.
Petlwana Journal of Creative Literature and the Arts 
Leave a comment