When The Rain Kissed The Sun - By Kayla Smith writing as Mia Haven

Written By: Kayla Smith writing as Mia Haven

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Kayla Smith, writing under the pseudonym Mia Haven, presents a captivating short story titled "When The Rain Kissed The Sun." This beautifully woven narrative invites readers to a world where the natural and mythical converge, exploring themes of family heritage and the timeless dance of nature. Set against the backdrop of a waterfall that has stood for generations, the story reflects on the legacy and traditions passed down through time.

About the Work

"When The Rain Kissed The Sun" captures the reader's imagination with its lyrical imagery and profound themes. The narrative explores the bond between family generations and their connection to myth and nature. Through the eyes of the characters, the story unfolds with a sense of wonder and reverence as they witness the enchanting interplay between the sun and rain, symbolizing a union between mythical beings. The language is rich with sensory detail, evoking the sounds and sights of the river and the land it traverses.

When The Rain Kissed The Sun

Original Submission by Kayla Smith writing as Mia Haven

The house has stood atop this hill, calmly planted next to the waterfall for longer than anyone alive remembers.

Children have been born within its walls. Brides have crossed its threshold beneath veils and wildflowers. Coffins have been carried down its steps, borne on the shoulders of sons and grandsons.

For generations, my family have watched the waterfall from this stoep.

And for all that time and longer, Inkanyamba has roamed it.

The old stories say one of my ancestors were one of the first to witness the dance. A wise woman who built a home where I stand now. Weathered boards smoothed by time, feet in fluffy slippers, staring down into the mist as the river dragon travelled through the river, climbing towards the peak, only to crash into the pool below.

She watched her race.

She watched her fall.

And she watched her return.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The mountain has changed little since her time.

The grass still rolls towards the slopes in great waves of green before the rocky riverbed. Moss and ferns still bloom amongst the rocks. Mist still gathers in the valley before dawn, curling around the cliffs as though the mountain was tucked in and reluctant to wake.

Below the house, the river carves its ancient path through the landscape of the valley.

It never rests.

Day and night, summer and winter, it throws itself over the edge and into the pool below. The sound of it has filled every moment of my life. It drifts through open windows in summer. Murmurs creating a vocal cacophony with the roaring fires of winter. It is woven into every memory I possess.

When I was young, I thought all homes came with a waterfall.

I thought everyone fell asleep to the sound of rushing water. Much like beach dwellers live with the sound of crashing waves and city dwellers live with the sound the rushing of trains.

I thought every grandmother kept one cynical eye on the river, while every grandfather kept their hope on the horizon.

Age taught me otherwise.

Most people see a waterfall and admire its beauty.

Some people see its danger and bravely dare it anyway.

My family watches it and waits.

The cliffs surrounding the falls are scarred by centuries of water and weather. Great rocks rise from the spray of the basin below, slick with moss and lichen. Great bird’s nest among the higher ledges. Dassies sun themselves on the warm stone when the afternoons are clear.

And as always, the river runs.

Above.

Below.

Patient.

Restless.

Remembering.

My grandmother used to say the river has moods. As a child, I laughed whenever she said it. Rivers were water. Streams to play in. How could something so joyful have moods?

Then I watched the current turn against itself on a cloudless afternoon.

I watched the spray rise when there was no wind.

I watched the silver scales disappear beneath the surface before I could convince myself they were there.

After that, I stopped laughing.

The older I become, the more I understand why my ancestors chose this place.

Not because the view is beautiful – even though it is.

Not because the land was fertile – even though it was.

But because of the waterfall.

Because grandfather always chased rainbows after grandmothers dreaded storms.

Because some stories are too important to leave behind.

And they stayed because some promises are made without words.

Generation after generation, we have remained here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Bearing witness.

Because Inkanyamba always returns to these falls.

And when she does, someone should be there to see it.

***

These days, my bones tell me the weather long before the clouds do.

My grandmother used to say the same thing, and I remember rolling my eyes every time she rubbed her knee and declared rain was coming. Now I catch myself doing it too.

Age has a funny way of turning us into our grandparents.

This morning, I woke with a familiar ache in my bones.

Not exactly pain, rather a foreboding expectation.

The kind that settles deep in your bones when something long anticipated is drawing near.

As I made my morning tea, I opened the windows to listen. The waterfall sounds different.

Most people would never notice. To them, water is water. Background white noise.

But I have listened to this river every day of my life, and I know it’s moods.

Today, it sounds restless.

I wrap my jersey tighter around my shoulders and step out onto the stoep.

My tea warms my hands as the crisp morning air bites at my skin. In the distance the sun is already warming the hillside.

Below, the waterfall plunges down into the basin.

Yet still, today the world felt amiss.

The animals are quiet.

I frown. Squinting towards the river. The fever trees near the bank were usually alive with chatter by this time of day. Mothers scolding their young. Squabbles over food. The occasionally dramatic outburst that echoed across the valley.

Now there is nothing.

Only the waterfall.

And what a strange silence that is.

A movement catches my attention. I glance down to see my grandson sitting cross-legged on the floor, pyjamas still on and completely absorbed in arranging a collection of smooth river stones into what appeared to be a fortress.

At least, I hoped it was a fortress. With children, one could never be entirely sure where their imaginations went.

“What are you building?” I ask.

Without looking up, he replies, “A dragon trap.”

I nearly laugh.

“A dragon trap?”

“Mhm.”

“And what, exactly, are you planning to catch in it?”

“A dragon.”

The confidence with which he delivered this statement suggested he had given the matter considerable thought and my confusion was unnecessary.

I looked towards the waterfall.

Then at the stones.

Then back to the waterfall.

“Good luck.”

He grinned.

For a while we sat together in comfortable silence.

Above us, an eagle circles lazily on a thermal current. With sudden determination, it folded its wings and flew away from the valley. I watched until it disappeared into the horizon.

My thumb rubs across the rim of my mug. As I catch the action, a sombre smile tugs at my lips. My grandmother used to do the same thing whenever the river grew restless.

I was always filled with excitement. She was coming. But gran knew, the excitement came with sadness.

The silence, the fleeing birds, and the river – it won’t be long now.

My eyes drift over the water.

The water rushing towards the falls. Pushing. Flowing. Racing. A current near the fall’s twists unexpectedly.

A small thing. Easy to miss.

A little swirl moving against the natural flow.

I lean forward in my chair.

A second swirl appears. Followed by a third before the water settles again.

I would wonder whether I imagined it but I know better. I know more.

Too many stories have left me seeing patterns where others see coincidence.

So, I am not surprised when a spray of water rises up from the water. Not from the basin below. There was no wind to carry it or pull it sideways. But a breath of water spraying upwards like a whale squirt. As something below the surface exhales.

My grandson follows my gaze.

“What are you looking at?”

The question pulls me away from the anticipation.

I hesitate.

How could I explain?

How do I tell a child that the mountains feel different today, that the river is restless, that the world is waiting for her. How do I say that without seeming as crazy as my own grandmother?

Instead, I smile.

“The waterfall.”

He squints towards it.

“It looks the same.”

“It usually does.”

That answer made him turn that squint on me. Confusion pouring down his face.

Well, I suppose, maybe we can’t escape the craziness that comes with age. We can embrace what we know or we can turn into a different kind of crazy fighting it. Maybe my grandmother wasn’t crazy. But trying to figure how to navigate her knowledge just as I now struggle with it.

Or maybe some things are just revealed when the time is right. Some mysteries need to be discovered at each person’s unique pace. That’s what makes the mysteries of the world so unique. We don’t get to know them all.

But I get to know this one.

The sun climbs a little higher. Heat settling over the valley. And the strange sensations hang heavy in the air. The kind of strangeness that thickens the air before a thunderstorm changes the horizon.

Somewhere deep within the water, a low rumble roars. The vibrations travelling into the earth at our feet.

The stones shake and tumbled down from the trap my grandson had built.

He jumps, wide eyes focusing on me.

“Come here.” I call, opening my arms. “There’s no need to be afraid. Come see.”

The sound rumbles again.

Not thunder.

Something older.

Something familiar.

For the first time in many years, my heart began to race.

Along the river edge, the racing river started churning. The waters waking to the day.

Inkanyamba is making her way towards the falls.

The thought settles over me with certainty.

The current gathers itself, no longer content to follow the path carved into the mountain centuries ago. It curls upon itself in restless circles, as though every drop is fighting gravity.

My grandson slips his hand into mine.

His fingers are warm. Small and trusting.

I wonder if my grandmother felt the same mixture of excitement and grief the first time she stood here with me. If her grandmother felt it before her. If all the family who came before, standing on this very stoep while holding the hands of children who had yet to discover the magic of the land, felt this tremble in their bones? Because some stories are beautiful because they never change.

“What’s happening?” he whispers.

“Listen to the water,” I whisper back.

My own ears straining to hear.

The voice of a waterfall is more than the endless roar of water surrendering to gravity. If you pause long enough, you can hear beyond the water. There is laughter in the bubbles as the mountain overflows after weeks of rain. There is the gentle murmur when the river grows thin and thoughtful. There is the furious crash of summer storms, when the valley trembles beneath its strength. And then there is this: A deep rumble that hums from beneath the water’s surface. A sound you feel as much as you hear.

The mountain recognises her.

Perhaps it always has. Perhaps every rock remembers – watching, waiting for the moment of her return. Much like my family. Eternal witnesses.

The wind shift, carrying over the scent of wet stone and river reeds. My lungs open up as I breathe in the muskiness.

Somewhere far below the birds lift from their nests in a sudden flurry of wings, soaring downstream before disappearing beyond the bend.

They know.

The fish know too.

Dark shadows and glimmering scales dart from the shallows into deeper water.

Every creature that can, leaves.

Except my family.

We have never looked away.

At this point, I think we stay because we always have.

Because someone must bear witness.

The river gathers speed. Enough now, that anyone passing by would notice.

Enough that I find myself standing up, leaning against the pillars at the edge of the stoep. As close as we will get, but close enough to see it all.

My grandson stretches up onto his tiptoes.

“What can you see?” he asks?

“She’s coming.”

“But gran, how do you know?”

I smile.

“You watch carefully,” I say “And you see.” I tap next to my eyes, emphasising my point. “And you feel it here,” I place my palm flat over his chest, his little heartbeat thumping excitedly underneath my palm.

“And you learn it in here,” I say finally, placing my hand over his head.

“And then you will also know.”

The river answered first.

Not with a roar, but with movement.

The current split around something vast beneath the surface, two ribbons of white water peeling away from an invisible force that cut through the river with impossible speed. The swell of the water flowed around her.

“There!” my grandson gasped, pointing downstream.

For a heartbeat I saw nothing. The water was calm and smooth as glass

Then the morning sun caught against something beneath the water.

A single silver scale.

Gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Then another.

They flashed beneath the current like pieces of the moon scattered through the river, each one impossibly large, each one travelling faster than the water itself.

The surface swelled from life.

The river arched upwards as though an enormous breath has been drawn beneath it, and then she broke through.

Inkanyamba unfolded from the river in long majestic strides.

A pair of horns rose first, curving backwards from a regal head adorned with a crown of smaller ivory spines worn smooth by centuries of rushing water. Droplets spilled from them like strings of crystals as she surged forward.

Her eyes followed. Dark and ancient, full of understanding.

They were not the eyes of a beast searching for prey, nor a god demanding worship. They were the eyes of a woman, searching for only one thing.

“My word…” my grandson breathed.

The river dragon paid us no mind.

She never had.

She has crossed mountains before ours had a name. She has swum through rivers long before mankind thought to man them. She has spent a lifetime searching and chasing.

We were no more than witnesses standing on the bank of a story far older than ourselves.

More of her body broke the surface.

Metres upon metres of shimmering scales, coiling through the river with effort grace. Their colours shifted beneath the sunlight, silver giving way to deep emerald before turning into shades of blue so deep it melted into the depths of the river. Every movement scattered diamond patterns across the water.

She was beautiful. Not in the delicate way of butterflies or wildflowers. She was beautiful in the way thunderstorms are beautiful. In the way oceans are beautiful. Beauty so magnificent it reminds you how very small you are.

Her whiskers streamed behind her like ribbons of flowing water. A long silver mane clung to the ridges of her neck, dancing along the river’s surface without ever tangling in the current. The reeds bowed to her as she passed them.

She drove herself forward with a powerful sweep of her tail, the river shuddering behind her. Her body folds and unfolds through the current in and endless motions, every coil gathering strength for the next

She did not fight the river.

She knew it.

Every bend in the current became another graceful curve of her body.

Every rapid became another curst of speed.

She knew this journey.

She knew every hidden boulder beneath the surface. Every fallen tree.

Every narrowing of the banks.

She slipped between them with such certainty that water and dragon were almost impossible to separate.

Never hesitating. Not once did she look away from the waterfall waiting ahead.

“Where is she going?” my grandson whispered.

A sad smile plagued my lips.

“Home.”

Not in the same way this house was our home.

No.

This was the home of her heart.

This was where her heart returned to.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The waterfall thundered before her now.

Mist rose high into the morning air, drifting through shafts of sunlight that turned each droplet gold.

Inkanyamba sped up.

Her great body disappeared beneath the foam before bursting through again. Driving against the current with such strength that waves crashed against the riverbanks. Water exploded around her as more of her serpentine body surfaced.

She pulled the river with her.

The water trailing in her wake like a train behind a locomotive. Every droplet, and current answering the call of their oldest spirit.

She was magnificent.

And utterly, hopelessly faithful.

There was no uncertainty in her movements.

No cautious approach.

No creature that has failed thousands of times should still move with such conviction.

Yet she did.

Because she knew somewhere beyond the clouds, beyond the blue stretching endlessly above the valley, he would hear her.

He always did.

Faith is a curious thing.

It asks nothing of certainty beside certainty of conviction.

Inkanyamba reaches the final stretch before the falls.

The current accelerated.

Spray burst upwards in shimmering curtains as her serpentine body cut through the white water with impossible force.

Beside me, my grandson stopped breathing.

I let the moment steal mine too.

Even after all these years.

Even after a lifetime of watching her return.

Watching her race.

Watching her believe.

She still stole the breath from my lungs.

She always would.

And with nothing else in her way, she leaped.

***

“Don’t close your eyes, little one,” my grandmother whispered. “Or you’ll miss it.”

The words carried me backwards through the years as surely as the river carried Inkanyamba towards the falls.

Suddenly I was no longer the old woman standing on the stoep.

I was seven years old again.

Barefoot.

My dress was damp around the hem from chasing butterflies through the long grass that morning, and my knees still wore the evidence of climbing trees I had been expressly told not to climb. I had collected 3 smooth river stones, a feather lost from a bird, and something I was absolutely convinced was a fairy’s shell, despite my grandmother insisting it was only a snail.

My grandfather said I collected treasures.

“Women understand magic,” I informed him as I tucked them all into the pockets of my dress.

He looked over his newspaper.

“Do they now?”

“They have to.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because faeries are girls.”

He considered that very seriously before nodding.

“Sound reasoning.”

My grandmother snorted into her tea.

“Don’t encourage her.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Hmph”

Personally, I thought Grandfather has better judgement.

“Come away from the edge,” grandma called.

“I’m not on the edge.”

“You’re close enough.”

“I’m perfectly safe.”

She pressed her lips together and raised an eyebrow.

I sighed with all the dramatic energy a seven-year-old could manage and shuffled two very reluctant steps backwards.

“There,” I declared. “Now I’m perfectly safe.”

She smiles into her tea.

“That’s debatable.”

Her laugh was a quiet laugh. The kind that slipped by unnoticed. It was the kind of laugh that if you caught it, it made you feel like you’d done something terribly clever, even when you’d only been a little cheeky.

The house was different then.

It seemed bigger.

The paint was fresher.

The old Jacaranda hadn’t yet stretched its branches across half the stoep, and my grandfather’s wind chimes still hung beneath the eaves, singing softly whenever the mountain breeze found them.

Everything smelled of polish, rooibos tea, and freshly baked bread.

To a little girl, it felt as though the house itself knew magic.

Then Grandma stopped smiling.

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“Mxm.”

It wasn’t loud but it was enough that Grandfather lowered his newspaper.

She was staring towards the river.

“There she goes again,” she mutters.

“Foolish woman.’

Another click of her tongue.

“Throwing herself off a cliff again.”

Grandfather folded his newspaper and wandered over to stand beside her.

His smile was different.

Softer.

Hopeful.

“Or,” he says quietly, “perhaps she’s the bravest creature ever.”

Grandma shoots him a look.

He ignores it.

“Image,” he continues. “After all these centuries…”

His eyes land back on the river.

“… she still believes he’ll be there.”

Grandma shakes her head.

“Or she’s too stubborn to admit the last few thousand attempts didn’t work.”

He chuckles.

“I think that’s what hope looks like.:

She made another little clicking sound with her tongue.

“I think that’s what love does to perfectly sensible women.’

I look between the two of them, completely bewildered.

“Who’s throwing themselves off a cliff?”

They exchange a glance.

Grandfather smiles and nods towards the river. “Watch.”

Grandma sighs.

“Oh, she’ll do what she’s always done.”

I turn so quickly I nearly trip over my own feet.

The river looked no different than it had this morning, or yesterday.

Water washed over smooth stones, white foam curling around the exposed rocks before disappearing over the edge.

I frown.

“I don’t – ”

The words catch in my throat.

A line appeared in the middle of the river.

Not a ripple or a wave.

A seam.

The water simply, folded apart as though someone has drawn an invisible finger through its centre. Two walls of rushing water peeled away from one another, exposing a strip of river so unnaturally still that it looked like polished glass. Nothing moved.

Then everything did.

The stillness surged forward.

The river burst open.

A great pair of ivory horns tore through the surface, throwing water high into the air. They curve backwards like the antlers of great kudu, sunlight catching every droplet that spilled from their tips.

A cry escapes my lips.

Wonder at the creature that poured out from the water’s surface.

She did not climb from the river, but seemed to form her body from the water itself.

Her long serpentine body unfurled beneath the surface, colours sparkling along her scales like tiny jewels. Shades of silver, green, and blue swimming together as if the river was painting her as she moved. Every sweep of her tail sent currents racing behind her, the water answering each movement without resistance.

She was impossibly large.

Longer than the fever tree’s lining the banks.

Long enough that by the time her head reached the last bend in the river, her tail still wound through the one before it. Yet she moved with astonishing grace. The river posed no resistance to her. It welcomed her.

She skimmed over rapids that would have overturned a fishing boat. She slipped between boulders with the elegance of smoke winding through open fingers. Every bend became an effortless curve of her body.

The sunlight adored her.

Every scale scattered the light into a thousand glittering fragments until the river looked as though someone has spilled stars across its surface.

“She’s beautiful,” I breathed.

Grandfather smiled without taking his eyes off her.

“Yes.”

Grandmother clicked her tongue.

“She’d be prettier if she’s stop trying to break her neck.”

“She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

“She most certainly does not.”

“She does.”

“Hopeless,” she tuts.

“Hopeful,” he gently corrects.

Inkanyamba paid neither of them any attention.

Nothing existed for her beyond the river ahead.

The closer she got to the waterfall, the faster she swam.

Every movement was measured with purpose.

The waterfall grew louder.

Mist climbed into the sky.

The earth beneath my bare feet trembled with the force of the water crashing into the basin below.

“She won’t stop,” I whispered.

Grandmothers’ eyes soften.

“No. Foolish woman.”

My eyes dart toward my grandfather.

“Doesn’t she know there’s a cliff?”

“She knows.”

I turn back towards grandma.

“But she’ll get hurt,” I plead.

“She’s prepared,” grandfather soothes me.

Grandma snorts.

We watching the Inkanyamba close the last of the distance. The water beneath her turns white with speed.

“Every journey she’s ever made, leads her back here, to this one leap.”

Spray explodes around her in great shimmering curtains as she threw her body off the edge of the waterfall.

Instinctively, I bury my head in my grandmother’s side.

My eyes squeezed shut.

I couldn’t watch,

I had spent all of five minutes falling in love with the great river dragon.

I didn’t want to see her die.

Even if she would come back.

Grandma rests her hand on the back on my neck.

“Don’t close your eyes little one,” my grandmother whispers, “or you’ll miss it. She’s not finished yet.”

Grandfather chuckles.

I frown against grandmothers’ apron.

“I don’t want to.”

“Look up,” she says.

“I’ll see her hit the rocks.”

“No,” my grandfather soothes, “Have hope. Look up.”

I always believed grandfather.

So, slowly…

Reluctantly…

I lifted my head.

Inkanyamba hung suspended above the valley. Her great body unfurled against the morning sky, reaching.

Not for the pool below. But up.

Up.

Up.

Towards the sun.

The valley fell beyond still.

Even the waterfall seemed to hold its breath.

Then a clear single note rang out across the mountains, like the first birdsong after winter.

I squinted up at the sky.

The sunlight had changed.

It no longer spilled gently across the valley.

It gathered.

The warmth upon my face deepened until I felt as though I was suffocating from the heat.

Every blade of grass shimmered. Every droplet of mist hanging above the waterfall blazed like molten gold.

The single note came again.

Longer.

Clearer.

It rolled through the mountains as every cliff, tree and stone echoed its song.

I searched the clouds.

At first, I saw nothing.

Then the light moved.

The brilliant whites and soft greys began to grow from within the clouds. Their edges bleeding into gold until they no longer looked like clouds at all, but rivers of sunlight drifting across the sky.

I blinked.

A flash burst across the heavens.

Instinctively, I threw my arms across my eyes.

White.

Nothing but white.

The kind of brightness that lingers behind your eyelids after you’ve spent too long looking at the midday sun.

My vision swam.

Gold shapes danced across my eyes.

Slowly, they began to fade.

I looked up again.

He was closer.

I hadn’t seen him cross the valley.

Another beat.

Another brilliant flash.

Again, my eyes squeezed shut.

When they opened, he had crossed half the distance between himself and Inkanyamba.

I laugh in astonishment.

“He keeps disappearing!”

Grandfather smiles.

“No. He moves with the light.”

I see grandfather squinting at the sky so I squint as well. My eyes straining to follow him.

He was a bird unlike anything I had ever imagined. His great wings stretched impossibly wide, spreading across the sky. Each feather seeming to have been woven from sunlight itself. They glowed with the colours of dawn – white, gold, amber and copper all bleeding together. And with every sweep of his wings the sunlight scattered across the valley until the world vanished into brilliance. He was the light.

His long tail streamed behind him in ribbons of living light, twisting and curling and dancing through the air like banners caught upon an invisible wind.

Around his head, the sunlight was the brightest.

His features indiscernible through the brightness, except for some golden feathers sweeping backwards from his head. It reminded me of the first rays on sunlight climbing over the mountains every morning.

He was beautiful.

Not in the fierce way of Inkanyamba.

No. He was certainty and comfort. As though the world sighed in joy simply because he arrived.

“Ilanga,” grandfather whispered.

“Took him long enough,” Grandmother muttered.

The great phoenix gave another clear call.

Inkanyamba answered with a cry that roared through the river below. It was the roar of longing wrapped inside joy.

For the first time since she had appeared, she turned her eyes from the sky before her…

…and found his.

Everything else disappeared.

The mountain.

The river.

Even the roar of the falls.

There was only the dragoon reaching upwards.

And the phoenix descending to meet her.

Then the first raindrop landed on my nose.

I looked up in confusion.

The sun still shone.

Bright.

Warm.

Yet another raindrop fell.

Cool insults again the skin still warmed by the sun.

Tiny diamonds drifted through shafts of golden light until the whole valley sparkles.

I reached out my hand.

The rain was cool.

The sunshine was warm.

Together they felt like magic,

I looked up at my grandparents.

“Why is it raining?”

Grandfather was holding onto Grandma and smiling.

“It’s their union.” Grandfather says, “They can only get close to one another, but whenever they do their combined forces make the rain fall while the sun shines. Most people call it a monkey’s wedding. But we know it’s them.”

Grandmother was pretending she wasn’t smiling.

And somewhere above us, hidden beyond the curtain of sunlight and rain, Inkanyamba and Ilanga danced.

I watched until the whole world disappeared behind the monkey’s wedding.

The years disappeared with it.

The warmth of my grandmother’s apron became the warmth of my grandson standing beside me.

Fresh paint weathered beneath the sun.

The young jacaranda grew broad and heavy with age.

One by one, the wind chimes fell silent.

The house grew older.

As did I.

But the rain has never changed.

A cool droplet lands against the back of my hand.

Then another.

Beside me, my grandson laughs as he stretched both hands towards the sky, trying to catch the falling diamonds just as I once did.

I smile.

Some magic stays the same, even as time ages.

A gasp escapes him.

“Gran –“

I follow his gaze.

Inkanyamba is still there.

Suspended above the valley.

Reaching.

She has made this leap more times that I could ever count.

My grandparents watched it.

And their grandparents before them.

Now it is my turn.

And with nothing else in her way, Inkanyamba leaped.

The river released her.

For one impossible heartbeat she belonged to neither water nor earth.

Her great body unfurled against the sky, every silver scale catching Ilanga’s light.

Stretching.

Reaching.

She wasn’t wild and desperate.

It was reaching for a familiar hand in the dark.

Ilanga folded his wings.

The valley dimmed, every ray of sunlight gathering around him as he dove towards her.

Steady.

Graceful.

And certain.

Then his wings opened.

Bountiful sunlight burst across the mountains.

I blink as the brilliant light washes over the valley for the briefest instant.

When my vision clears, they have found one another.

Not in touch.

Never in touch.

But impossibly close.

Inkanyamba twists through the air with effortless grace, her body coiling around the path Ilanga carved through the heavens. He answers her every movement with one sweeping turn of his radiant wings. Circling her as though the sky itself has learned the rhythm of the river.

After all these years, I still couldn’t tell who lead this dance. Where one movement ended and the other began.

It was a dance rehearsed across centuries.

A promise asked every time she leaped.

A promise answered every time he came.

Their eyes never left one another.

Not when Inkanyamba twisted through the air.

Not when Ilanga soared above her.

Not when rain began to fall between them.

Every leap.

Every answer.

Every century.

They looked only at each other.

Even as the valley awoke around them.

Their first raindrops became thousands.

They drifted through the sunlight instead of falling, turning the air into a curtain of tiny crystals. Every droplet caught Ilanga’s light before landing upon Inkanyamba’s shimmering scales, where they scattered into rainbows that dance across the cliffs.

The waterfall roared louder than before, wishing to join the chorus of celebration. While the wind curled lovingly around their bodies. Mist rose up to greet them. The mountains watched in awe and pride. Even the trees bowed in reverence.

For a fleeting moment, the whole world breathed in the same rhythm as Inkanyamba and Ilanga.

No matter how many times I have stood upon this stoep, no matter how many monkey’s weddings have blessed these mountains, I still haven’t grown accustomed to the privilege of witnessing two ancient hearts find one another again.

Yet every song must fade, and every dance must end.

The rain softened.

The sunlight began to stretch across the valley once more.

Their rhythm slowed.

Neither wished it to end, but the world demanded it.

Inkanyamba’s body began its gentle decent. The graceful spirals that had carried her skyward slowly surrendering to gravity. She did not fight it.

She never had.

Ilanga circled above her one final time, his great wings scattering the last of the golden rain across the valley. Every beat of those radiant wings seemed reluctant, as though even the wind itself wished to linger a little longer.

They remained impossibly close.

Close enough to see one another.

Never close enough to touch.

“Why doesn’t he catch her?” my grandson pleas.

The question hung between us, just as it had once hung between my grandparents and me.

Below us the river opened its waiting arms.

Above us the sky called Ilanga home.

The belong to different worlds,” I say softly.

My grandson frowns.

“But they love each other.”

“They do.”

“Then that’s not fair.”

A smile finds my lips, though it carried the weight of every monkey’s wedding I had ever witnessed.

“No,” I agreed softly. “It is. But love is worth it”

Inkanyamba never looked away from Ilanga.

Ilanga never turned away from Inkanyamba.

Not as the distance between them slowly grew.

Not as the rain became mist.

Not as the sunlight steadied it’s claim on the valley.

At last, the river welcomed her home.

She disappeared beneath its embrace with barely a splash, as though she had always been part of it.

For a long moment, Ilanga remained where she had left him.

One last cry echo across the mountains.

A promise.

Then, with one final sweep of his wings, he climbed towards the heavens until his light became indistinguishable from the afternoon sun.

The valley returned to itself.

The waterfall roared.

The birds returned.

The animals began to chatter.

The fever trees stirred in the breeze.

It was as though nothing extraordinary had happened.

“Will she come back?”

I smiled, never taking my eyes from the water.

“She always does.”

“And will he?”

I look towards the warm afternoon sun.

“He always meets her.”

My grandson was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he asked the question I had waited my whole life to hear.

“Why/”

I turned to face him. My weary body sinking back into my chair as I meet my grandson’s eyes.

“Because some promises are too important to break.”

Far below us the river carried Inkanyamba away.

Far above us, Ilanga crossed the endless sky.

They belonged to different worlds again.

But somewhere, beyond mountains and rivers, beyond sunrises and sunsets, Inkanyamab would begin the journey back to this place.

Back to the waterfall.

Back to the leap.

And Ilanga would be waiting.

As he always was.

Sometime the journey only took weeks, while other times, years spanned their meetings.

But they always found their way back to one another.

And whenever sunshine kissed the rain, my family would be here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Bearing witness to their story.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a celebration of literary creativity, inviting writers from around the world to share their unique voices and stories. This prestigious platform offers participants the opportunity to showcase their work and connect with a global audience of literary enthusiasts. The competition encourages a wide array of genres and themes, fostering a diverse tapestry of storytelling.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Kayla Smith, writing as Mia Haven, for sharing "When The Rain Kissed The Sun" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This evocative short story enriches our understanding of the enduring bonds between nature, myth, and family. We appreciate the opportunity to experience this magical narrative and look forward to future contributions from such a talented writer.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.