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.
He stepped off the veranda.
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 .” ngoswe kitovu cha uzembe