On the morning of the hundredth day, Shabani stood before the tree, bucket in hand. A single flower bloomed at its crown—golden and glowing, like a lantern caught in the leaves. The old man appeared again, leaning on his stick.
The children of Ngoswe began to treat him as a cautionary monument. They would dare each other: “Go touch Shabani’s veranda post and run before laziness catches you.” The post was gray and flaky with rust, and touching it felt like pressing a hand against the tombstone of ambition.
“I am Shabani,” Shabani replied, not lifting his head from where it rested against the wall. “Fame is a heavy coat. I prefer a light blanket.” ngoswe kitovu cha uzembe
The title was not earned overnight. It was cultivated, watered by excuses, and fertilized by good intentions that never quite sprouted.
His veranda, a cracked slab of concrete shaded by a rusted corrugated iron roof, was his kingdom. From this throne, Shabani watched the world struggle. He watched mothers haul water from the communal tap. He watched boda-boda drivers argue over fares. He watched children run to school, their uniforms flapping like desperate flags. And each time, he would nod wisely and mutter, “ Kesho .” On the morning of the hundredth day, Shabani
“I wish,” Shabani said slowly, “that everyone in Ngoswe forgets the name ‘Kitovu cha Uzembe.’ That they remember a different name.”
The old man placed the seed on the veranda rail. “Keep it, then. Or don’t. Kesho is a heavy blanket, too. But blankets don’t grow trees.” He stood, dusted his jacket, and walked away without looking back. The children of Ngoswe began to treat him
The old man raised an eyebrow. “And what name is that?”