The Rainmakers
133 Pages
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The Rainmakers


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133 Pages


Fifteen-year-old Tendo Katende was looking forward to the holidays and a break from schoolwork, but two weeks in he can't stand the routine of playing video games all day long any more. Will the rest of the holiday be like this? Then a visit from an uncle he has never met before changes everything. Uncle Moses comes with a gift of a holographic video game like none Tendo has ever played before.
When strange happenings at the farm start causing havoc, mayhem and destruction, Tendo gets into serious trouble with his father, concerned about the game's power. Is the new holographic game linked to the mysterious events at the farm? Does that mean Tendo needs to stop playing his super-fun, highly addictive video game if he is to save the farm? What if there are more sinister forces with vindictive agendas at work on the farm? Suddenly, the holidays are no longer boring, Tendo teams up with his friends to solve the mystery before the whole farm is destroyed.
Paul Kisakye is a Ugandan-born writer, editor and writing coach. He is the author of Tech Explorers League, a series of sci-fi novels for children; and a non-fiction book Prodigal Love. He is an African Writers Trust Publishing Fellow and was shortlisted for the Writivism Short Story Prize in 2013 for his piece, Emotional Roller Coaster.



Published by
Published 24 November 2020
Reads 8
EAN13 9782359261035
Language English
Document size 3 MB

Legal information: rental price per page 0.0000€. This information is given for information only in accordance with current legislation.


Paul Kisakye TheRainmakers
he Raînmakers
About te autor
Pau Kîsakye îs a Ugandan-born wrîter, edîtor and wrîtîng coac. He îs te autor o teTech Explorers League, a serîes o scî-I noves or cîdren; and a non-Ictîon bookProdigal Love. He îs an Arîcan Wrîters Trust Pubîsîng Feow and was sortîsted or te Wrîtîvîsm Sort Story Prîze în 2013 or îs pîece, “Emotîona Roer Coaster”.
he Raînmakers
Pau Kîsakye
© Amaîon 2020
Amaîon BP 5637 Dakar-Fann Dakar CP 10700 Senega ttp://www.amaî
ISBN 978-2-35926-102-8 (paperback) ISBN 978-2-35926-103-5 (ebook)
Cover desîgned by Anke Rosenocer
Prînted and bound by Imprînt Academîc, Seycees Farm, Upton Pyne, EX5 5HY, UK
A rîgts reserved. No part of tîs pubîcatîon may be reproduced, transmîtted, or stored în a retrîeva system, în any form or by any means, wîtout permîssîon în wrîtîng from Amaîon, nor be oterwîse cîrcuated în any form of bîndîng or cover tan tat în wîc ît îs pubîsed.
hîs pubîcatîon was produced under te Cuture at Work Afrîca Programme împemented by te Arts & Cuture programme at Unîversîté Abdou Moumounî, Nîger în partnersîp wît Amaîon, wît te inancîa support of te European Unîon. Its contents are te soe responsîbîîty of te autor and do not necessarîy relect te vîews of te European Unîon.
To Crîspus, my dearest broter
sîtup în bed and stretc my arms. he mornîng sunîgt îs aInoter day o vîdeo games at Unce James’s ouse. aready streamîng troug my bedroom wîndow. “O no! Not agaîn!” ï say to myse at te tougt o Puîng back te duvet over my ead, ï try to get some more seep. But ï ave used up a my seep. ï never seep tîs ong durîng te scoo term. ï’m aways up by sîx and out o te ouse by sîx tîrty, just în tîme to catc te scoo bus to Mukungu Hîg Scoo. Wen te term ended, ï was ookîng orward to seepîng troug te mornîng. But now even seep as become borîng. Frustrated, ï get out o bed and trudge to te batroom or a sower. Ater te sower, ï go downstaîrs and Ind Mum as a-ready et or work. hanks to wakîng up ate, ï no onger see er în te mornîngs. Dad îs seated în îs avourîte armcaîr, readîng a book. “Good mornîng, Dad.” “Tendo! ï see you stî aven’t got tîred o wakîng up ate,” Dad says, ookîng up rom îs book, îs a-moon-saped wîre-rîmmed readîng gasses away down te brîdge o îs nose. “You’ become azy.” “No more wakîng up ate or me,” ï repy. “ï ee îke ï’ve done a te seepîng tere îs to do or te rest o te oîday.” “Good! So, wat are you doîng today?”
ï touc my cîn, tryîng to tînk up sometîng un to do today. “Same tîng ï dîd yesterday.” “O. Wat was tat?” “Same tîng ï dîd te day beore.” Dad nods îs ead. He îs orgetu and ï enjoy teasîng îm about ît. “Your unce Moses îs comîng to vîsît us today,” Dad says. “ï’m goîng to pîck îm up at te aîrport tîs aternoon.” “Unce Moses îs comîng to vîsît us?” ï ask, surprîsed. ï’ve eard a îtte about Dad’s oder broter rom storîes Dad as tod me, but ï’m yet to meet îm. “Yes. And e’ be stayîng or Crîstmas.” “hat’s so coo!” ï say. îvîng în a arge our-bedroom ouse wît ony my parents can get oney at tîmes. Sometîmes ï wîs ï wasn’t an ony cîd wît no oter reatîves îvîng cose by. Today, ï’ Inay get to meet Dad’s broter. ï ope e îs as coo as my dad. “ï’ need you to be on your best beavîour wîe e’s ere,” Dad says. “Sure.” ït’s not îke ï’m not aways on my best beavîour. Apart rom ackîng my way around parenta contros on my pone and tab so ï can watc some vîdeos a Iteen-year-od boy soudn’t watc—accordîng to my parents—ï am a pretty decent guy. ï saunter to te kîtcen and get out a bow rom a cup-board. ï pour some Coco Pops în ît, open te rîdge, get out cod mîk and drown te Coco Pops în ît. Wît a tabe-spoon, ï stuf te cerea down my troat. Ten mînutes ater, ï’m out o te ouse, on my way to Unce James’s ouse.
Dr James Mugonyî, an award-wînnîng scîentîst and înventor, îs Dad’s cosest rîend. He îs te unce ï ave never met. ï’ve known îm or as ong as ï can remember. Hîs twîn son and daugter, Kato and Babîrye, are my cosest and odest rîends. Wen we were îtte, Mum or Dad woud erry me to Unce James’s ouse or pay dates wît te twîns sînce we were age-mates. ï am ony tree monts oder tan tem. Unce James’s ouse îs on a street îned wît îdentîca ouses buît by te same rea estate company. My rîends and ï ove angîng out at îs ouse because e as te best vîdeo game consoe ever. And e îs not as strîct as my dad about ow ong we pay vîdeo games. As soon as ï rîng te doorbe, te door Lîes open and Atas, Unce James’s Vîrtua Assîstant, speaks troug speak-ers îdden în te wa. “Tendo,” Atas says în a smoot, emae voîce, “you’re ate. Oversept agaîn?” “ït’s te oîdays, Atas,” ï say, enterîng te ouse. he door sowy coses beînd me. “ït’s te ony tîme ï get to seep tî ï can seep no more.” “Your rîends ave been waîtîng or you or orty-eîgt mînutes now în te basement.” ï ead straîgt to te basement, wîc as wat Unce James cas îs man cave, an entertaînment centre tat as îg-tec gadgets tat are straîgt out o a scîence Ictîon movîe. “Hey guys!” ï say.