The morning sun cast long shadows over the red earth of Kijiji cha Tumaini, painting the village in golden hues. The familiar sounds of roosters crowing, goats bleating, and distant voices calling out greetings echoed like a song of continuity. But for Jabari, standing alone on the ridge overlooking the village, the rhythm of home felt strangely out of step with the beat in his chest.
He gripped a weather-worn notebook tightly to his side—the one his older cousin, Baraka, had given him before leaving for university in Nairobi. The pages were filled with ideas and questions Jabari didn't dare speak aloud, not in a place where curiosity often came second to survival.
He watched smoke rise in gentle columns from cooking fires, curling around the thatched roofs of the clustered huts below. His younger siblings were already stirring. He could hear the scurry of feet and laughter as they chased a stubborn chicken through the yard. Mama's voice called out sharply from the kitchen hut, her tone warm but firm, grounding the morning in routine.
Jabari took one last look at the path that led to the hills beyond—the world he longed to explore—and turned back toward home.
---
"Jabari! Come wash the cassava!" Mama called, hands deep in a basin of greens as she prepared breakfast.
He set the notebook carefully on the wooden ledge in their hut and hurried over. He rolled up the sleeves of his threadbare shirt, dipped his hands into the cool water, and began scrubbing the roots clean. His youngest sister, Zawadi, sat nearby chewing a sugarcane stick, watching him with wide, unblinking eyes.
"You think too much," she said plainly.
Jabari laughed. "And you talk too much."
Zawadi stuck out her tongue and ran off, giggling.
Mama glanced at him with that look—half pride, half worry. "You've had that distant look again. What's in your head today, my son?"
Jabari hesitated. "Nothing, Mama."
"Ah, that 'nothing' again." She wiped her hands and stood straight. "Is it the exam results? Or something else?"
He looked down, unsure how to put his yearning into words. "I just… I wonder what it would be like to learn more. To see more. To do something different."
She nodded slowly, drying her hands on her wrap. "Different is not always better, Jabari. And better is not always different. The world out there isn't kind to boys like you. Don't forget the soil that feeds your feet."
He wanted to tell her about the dreams that visited him at night—visions of cities filled with buildings that scraped the sky, of libraries with more books than he could count, of classrooms where questions were not silenced but encouraged.
But instead, he just said, "I won't forget, Mama."
---
Later that day, Jabari walked to the schoolhouse at the edge of the village. It was a single-room structure with cracked walls and a tin roof that clattered in the wind. Inside, children scribbled in worn notebooks, their laughter interrupted by the occasional stern voice of Teacher Omari, the only educator in a 10-kilometer radius.
"Ah, Jabari," the teacher said when he saw him. "You're early. That's the sign of a scholar."
Jabari smiled faintly. "I wanted to ask if the exam results have come."
Teacher Omari pulled a folded paper from his satchel. "They came this morning."
He held it out.
Jabari's hands trembled as he took it. He unfolded it slowly, eyes scanning down the list of names until he found his.
Jabari Mwandu – Top 3 in the district. Eligible for scholarship consideration.
His heart pounded.
"You've done well," Teacher Omari said. "You've earned the chance to study in the capital—if your family agrees, of course."
That last part hung heavy in the air. "If they agree."
Teacher Omari placed a hand on his shoulder. "Change asks for courage—not just from you, but from everyone you leave behind."
---
That evening, Jabari sat by the cooking fire with his father, Baba Mwandu, a quiet man with deep-set eyes and calloused hands from years of working the land. He rarely spoke unless he had something to say.
When Jabari showed him the letter, Baba studied it for a long while in silence.
"And what does your heart tell you, Jabari?"
"That I should go," he said, voice firm. "That I must try."
Baba nodded. "Then it is your path. But know this: the city may teach you many things, but it cannot teach you to be a man of your people. Only this soil can do that."
Jabari swallowed hard. "I'll come back."
"Then make sure you bring back more than a certificate. Bring back something this village can hold on to."
---
Over the next few days, word spread through the village. Some were proud, others skeptical. Aunt Rehema clucked her tongue. "Books don't plow fields or fetch water. What will his mother do without his help?"
Jabari kept his head down, helping with chores, fetching water, repairing the chicken coop—anything to remind them he hadn't forgotten who he was.
At night, he wrote feverishly in his notebook by lantern light:
> What if there's a way to grow more food with less water?
What if the elders' wisdom and science could work together?
What if dreams weren't just for the lucky few?
---
One afternoon, his best friend, Kito, came by with a bundle of firewood balanced on his head.
"You're going to leave me to fight goats and dig cassava alone?" he teased.
Jabari chuckled. "I'm not leaving you. I'm going ahead. You'll follow."
Kito shrugged. "Not all of us have heads made for books. Some of us are made for the soil."
"But both are needed," Jabari said seriously. "The soil feeds the body. The book feeds the mind."
Kito looked at him, something unspoken passing between them. "Just don't forget us when you're surrounded by glass buildings and fancy food."
"Never," Jabari promised.
---
The day before his departure, Jabari visited the village elder, Mzee Jumba, a wrinkled man with a voice like gravel and eyes that missed nothing. He sat beneath the great baobab tree, a walking stick beside him and a pipe in hand.
"I hear you're going far," Jumba said as Jabari approached.
"Yes, Mzee."
"And what will you find there that you cannot find here?"
Jabari hesitated. "Answers. A future."
Jumba chuckled. "Ah, the young. Always chasing the horizon. But let me tell you a secret—every answer you find out there will lead you back here."
He reached into a carved gourd and pulled out a small, folded cloth. Inside was a seed.
"Take this," Jumba said. "It's from the old baobab. Plant it when you return. Let it remind you that no matter how high you climb, your roots are here."
Jabari accepted the gift with reverence. "Asante, Mzee."
---
On the morning of his departure, the village gathered. Mama pressed a packet of dried food into his hands. Baba gave him a firm handshake. Zawadi clung to his leg, then let go with a shy wave. Even Aunt Rehema brought him a beaded bracelet.
As he climbed aboard the battered bus that would take him toward the city, toward the unknown, Jabari looked out the window one last time. The fields. The people. The baobab. All bathed in morning light.
And he whispered to himself, "I will return."