The title was not earned overnight. It was cultivated, watered by excuses, and fertilized by good intentions that never quite sprouted.
Shabani looked at the tree. Then he looked at his veranda—the cracked slab, the rusted roof, the post that children were afraid to touch. He looked at Ngoswe waking around him: Mama Nuru pumping water, boda-boda drivers revving engines, children racing to school.
Shabani found an old bucket, fixed a leak with a piece of plastic, and watered it at dawn. His back hurt. His eyes were gritty with sleep. But he did it again the next dawn. And the next.
Tomorrow.
