The river used to sing.

In the early mornings, before the sun rose over the mangroves of the Niger Delta, Boma would follow her mother to the water’s edge. The river shimmered like glass, and fish danced beneath its surface. They would laugh as they cast their nets, returning home with baskets full and hope even fuller.

Now, the river is silent.

Boma stands at the same edge, but the water no longer reflects the sky. It is thick, dark, and smells of death. Oil clings to the surface like a curse that will not lift. The fish are gone. The birds no longer visit.

Her little brother once asked why the river had turned black.

She had no answer, only memories.

At night, the elders speak in hushed tones of broken pipelines and careless drilling. They mention distant companies and promises that never reached their shores. Words like “spill” and “cleanup” float through the air, but nothing changes.

Boma kneels and dips her hand into the poisoned water. It coats her skin, heavy and unnatural.

This river raised them. It fed them. It carried their stories.

Now, it is killing them.

And still, it flows.