In my father’s village, there is a river.
For centuries, its waters have flowed quietly through the land, quenching the thirst of farmers, children, hunters, and strangers alike.
It was more than a river. It was life itself.
I grew up hearing stories of how, long before boreholes and mechanised pumps, people cupped their palms into the stream and drank directly from its crystal-clear waters.
They swore it was the sweetest water one could ever taste, untouched by chemicals, free from disease, and blessed by the unseen guardians of the land.
The river was not merely a source of water. It was sacred. It was home to the gods.
For generations, no one had ever heard of cholera, dysentery, or typhoid in that village.
The river gave, and the people received.
No questions asked.
No interventions needed.
But then came the “obronis” – well-meaning expatriate volunteers armed with modern engineering plans and the zeal to “help.”
They wanted to build a small dam and a treatment plant to modernise the system and ensure safe, potable water for the people.
It was, in their eyes, a noble mission.
Yet, the elders of the village shook their heads.
“The gods have forbidden it,” they said.
Any attempt to mechanise or interfere with the river would disturb the deities, unleashing their wrath on the community.
Some claimed the gods could bring death and misfortune if their home was desecrated.
The message was clear: Leave the river alone.
The expatriates were puzzled.
They spoke of filters, pipelines and chlorine treatment.
But to the villagers, the invisible guardians mattered more than pipes and pumps.
And so, the project was abandoned.
Others came in later years with similar intentions, but they too were turned away by the authority of the oracles.
Sacred Mangroves and Silent Forests
The river was not the only place under divine protection.
Scattered across the region were mangrove swamps, forests and sacred groves – spaces no one dared to cut, burn, or farm.
These were considered abodes of the gods, realms where deities walked unseen, where hunters would never set traps, and where loggers would not swing their axes.
For centuries, these traditions protected the land.
They created pockets of ecological sanctuaries long before the world began to speak of biodiversity and climate change.
Within these sacred places, rare birds nested, medicinal plants thrived, and rivers kept their course.
The gods, it was believed, were the custodians of fertility, rainfall, and abundance.
They blessed women with children, farmers with bumper harvests, and the community with peace.
People feared them, but they also loved and respected them.
Yet, while tradition framed these restrictions as spiritual obedience, science has since confirmed their practical wisdom.
Protected forests do indeed influence rainfall patterns.
Untouched mangroves shield coastlines and preserve marine life. Rivers allowed to run their natural course remain healthier than those dammed and polluted.
The “fear of the gods” aligned seamlessly with ecological preservation.
Enter the new gods: greed and ecocide
But something has shifted. The fear that once protected these sacred spaces is fading.
The guardians that once instilled awe seem to have grown silent.
In today’s Ghana and across many African communities, rivers that were once untouchable are now being destroyed by illegal mining.
About 18 river bodies are believed to have been destroyed by illegal mining or ‘galamsey.’
The gold rush, driven by greed, has led to the poisoning of water bodies with mercury and cyanide.
Once-pristine rivers now flow brown and toxic, killing fish, deforming children, and leaving communities thirsty.
Forests that once stood as temples of the gods are being slashed down for gold.
The new gods are not deities carved from wood or enshrined in shrines.
They are the gods of wealth, vanity and quick riches.
They are the excavators tearing through riverbeds.
They are the human hands that now desecrate what was once untouchable.
So we must ask: Where are the river gods?
Are they dead? Have they been rendered powerless by the mercury and the bulldozers?
Or perhaps they never existed in the way we thought – they were simply metaphors for our collective responsibility.
Science Meets Silence
Science has long confirmed what tradition expressed in myth: forests bring rain; rivers sustain life; mangroves prevent floods.
But while scientists issue warnings of climate change and environmental collapse, their voices, like those of the old gods, are often ignored.
Today, farmers no longer look to the gods for rain – they look to irrigation pipes and boreholes.
Young people no longer fear the wrath of a deity; they fear poverty, unemployment, and exclusion.
And so, they gamble away the rivers, forests, and mangroves for a chance at fleeting prosperity.
The gods are silent, and science is drowned out by the noise of excavators and the poison of mercury and cyanide.
Who will speak?
But perhaps the silence of the gods is not the end of the story. Perhaps it is a test.
Maybe the gods are waiting for us to understand that the responsibility was always ours.
That the reverence we once clothed in myth was actually a call to stewardship.
That the sacredness of the river was not in the fear of punishment, but in the wisdom of preservation.
If the gods are dead, then we – the living – must become the new guardians.
We must rise to protect the rivers, forests, and mangroves, not because a shrine demands it, but because our very survival depends on it.
And so I ask again: Are the river gods dead?
Or are we, the people, the ones who have died inside, silenced by greed and distracted by vanity?
The gods may remain silent, but silence is not an option for us.
If the river gods will not speak, then we must speak for them – or prepare to drink from poisoned rivers and walk on barren land.
The gods must speak now, or forever keep quiet.
But if they do not, then we must speak in their place.
Email: maximus.attah@gmail.com
