Ngoswe Kitovu — Cha Uzembe Extra Quality

Tomorrow.

He became a local philosopher of delay. His sayings were quoted in whispers: “Haste is the enemy of comfort,” and “Why do today what can be artfully arranged for the afterlife?”

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. ngoswe kitovu cha uzembe

The old man chuckled. He sat on the edge of the veranda without being invited. He opened his wooden box. Inside was a single, ordinary-looking seed. Brown. Small. Unremarkable.

The tree grew. One foot each night, just as the old man had promised. By the thirtieth day, it was taller than Shabani. By the sixtieth, its shade fell across his veranda. And by the ninety-ninth day, it was a mighty pillar of wood and leaves, its branches reaching toward the sun like arms stretching after a very long sleep. Tomorrow

The title was not earned overnight. It was cultivated, watered by excuses, and fertilized by good intentions that never quite sprouted.

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. “Keep it, then

Shabani laughed—a dry, rattling sound. “Old man, you expect me to wake at dawn? For a seed? I have not woken at dawn since 2017, and that was because the roof fell on my head.”