The sky was painted a soft orange as the sun began its descent behind the hills that cradled the village of Embangweni. It was a serene evening, the type that made the elders recall the days of their youth with a bittersweet smile. But today, the usual chatter at the open-air gathering under the ancient mutowe was replaced by the commanding voice of Kamabuku Guluchete, the eldest among them.
He was a man whose wrinkles told stories of seasons past, whose eyes held the wisdom of a thousand harvests. “For heaven’s sake,” he began, his voice a mix of exasperation and hope, “you must heed my words. The ways of today—they are like a river swollen with rains, pulling even the strongest swimmers into dangerous currents.”
The crowd murmured in agreement, their eyes fixed on Kamabuku as he paced slowly, his cane tapping the ground like a drumbeat.
“Avoid the hunger for riches that have no roots in the soil of honesty,” Kamabuku continued. “It is like planting maize in sand; it will sprout quickly, but the first wind will scatter it. Look at what has become of Mbulakwawo’s family.”
Everyone knew Mbulakwawo. His rise had been swift—shiny cars, a mansion with gates so high they scraped the sky. But whispers of corruption had followed him like a shadow. One day, he was gone, leaving behind debts, shattered dreams, and a family too ashamed to walk to the market.
Kamabuku’s voice softened as he pointed toward the horizon. “Remember, the land is our mother. She feeds us, clothes us, shelters us. But what are we doing? Selling her piece by piece to strangers, paving over her fertility with roads that lead nowhere. If you sell the land for temporary riches, where will your children stand?”
Among the listeners, young Amina shifted uncomfortably. She had been eyeing the promise of a better life in the city, where she imagined tall buildings and endless lights would make her forget the monotony of village life. But Kamabuku’s words had pierced her dreams like thorns.
“And then there is this disease of forgetting,” Kamabuku’s voice grew firmer. “We forget our language, our dances, our songs. In our rush to become like the West, we abandon what makes us who we are. Tell me, how does a bird fly without wings? If we cut our roots, how will the tree of our people stand strong?”
Elderly women nodded, their hands busy shelling groundnuts. They had seen it too often: children returning from the city, speaking English as if it were a shield against their mother tongues, refusing to kneel in greeting, scorning the village’s simple ways.
“Our children,” Kamabuku’s voice cracked with emotion, “are lost in a sea of screens. Their eyes no longer meet ours; their hands no longer know the weight of a hoe. They chase the world of the internet, a world that gives them no rest. Have we failed to teach them that true wealth lies in community, in the sweat of honest work?”
The village youth, who had gathered at the edge of the crowd, looked at one another sheepishly. Kamabuku’s words felt like the call of a cockerel at dawn—impossible to ignore.
“Avoid greed that eats up the heart of unity,” Kamabuku continued. “Look at what envy and jealousy have done to us. We speak ill of one another; we pull each other down like crabs in a basket. When did we forget that a village thrives when it moves as one, like the ants building their hill?”
His words stirred memories among the older men, of days when a neighbor’s misfortune was everyone’s burden. They remembered how, in times of hunger, they had shared their last handful of flour. But now, fences and walls separated them, not just physically but in spirit.
Kamabuku paused, leaning on his cane, his gaze sweeping across the faces before him. “And for heaven’s sake, never forget respect—for the elders, for the spirits of our ancestors, for the wisdom of tradition. The young may have strength, but without respect, they are like a machete swinging wildly, cutting down what should be preserved.”
A silence settled over the gathering, the only sound the whisper of the wind through the mutowe’s leaves. Even the children, who had been playing nearby, had stopped to listen.
“I do not speak to bind you to the past,” Kamabuku said, his tone now gentle. “No. The world is changing, and we must change with it. But change without wisdom is like setting sail without a compass. You will drift until the sea swallows you whole.” He gestured toward the young men and women. “You are the future of Embangweni. What will you do with it? Will you let the river of today’s temptations sweep you away? Or will you plant your feet firmly on the bank, drawing strength from the roots of our people?”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold and crimson, the villagers sat in quiet reflection. Kamabuku’s words had struck a chord, a melody both haunting and hopeful.
Amina, for the first time, felt the pull of responsibility stronger than her longing for the city lights. She thought of her grandmother, who had taught her how to weave baskets, and her father, who had shown her how to read the signs of rain in the sky. Perhaps there was a way to honor both the old and the new, to walk forward without forgetting where she had come from.
Kamabuku Guluchete, seeing the introspection in their faces, nodded slowly. He had planted the seeds of thought. Whether they grew into trees of wisdom or withered in the harsh sun of neglect was up to them. But for now, he was content. The evening air was cool against his weathered skin as he sat back, listening to the quiet murmur of his people.
In that moment, under the ancient mutowe, it seemed possible that Embangweni could hold on to its soul while embracing the future—for heaven’s sake.