A Boy of Ten Summers

A story by AMANI MOSI

My name is Kato. But in the village, they say I look more like my mother’s people. They are from the hills near the Kachere trees. Where the soil is red and the women sing songs of Ukwele while pounding millet. Perhaps that is why father decided he was not obligated to stay. Perhaps shadows do not care much for what they resemble. They say he went to Blantyre in search of life with two pillows and three meals, and left us behind with the small fires, the smaller meals and the stories that got sadder each time they were told.

Then Kalala came. A man of few words and fewer smiles. The missionaries said we must love our neighbours. Yet no one told us what to do when the neighbours brought replacements for fathers. Kalala’s eyes were not so much eyes as accusations waiting for confirmation. When he looked at me, he saw nothing but wind. His children stood beside him like plantain stalks. They were the sort of children who blinked only when instructed, and a mouth trained in scowls. To me, Kalala was a story told too loudly in a small room. But to him, I was just a face he hadn’t bothered to look at.

I’m not just another face. I’m Kato. Ten years old. Not ten in the way a white man counts years. But ten cycles of hunger. Or ten rains and ten harvests of maize. Whichever angers the Ukwele people less. I fish. Why? Because even rivers give more answers than adults. Sampa was our hero. He never returned without a catch. It might even be true. The elders speak of him as one speaks of the rain and pain.

The river rises on the night of Umwenshi. That’s what it does. It’s no miracle. Just water, responding to rain. Still, the villagers insist on attaching meaning to it. They say it lifts our hearts too. I’m not sure if that’s true, but people believe what helps them sleep. The moonlight dances across the sky like it has better places to be. Mbangu, too old to pretend otherwise, tells stories he’s told before, and dances by the shore like he’s twenty. The night of Umwenshi has an odd vitality. The moon takes one look at the Njebele and throws down a whole tub of light; the kind of light that makes shadows worse. My stepbrothers stand behind me. They are quiet. It’s the sort of silence that makes you wonder what they are really thinking.

Everyone says the night is sacred. But then again, everything becomes sacred if you keep saying it enough. The stars lean down to hear the songs of my people. Even Mbangu, who couldn’t tap his foot to a funeral drum most days, seems to shift his shoulders. It’s enough for people to call it dancing. My stepbrothers whisper things I can’t hear. Perhaps about me. Or perhaps about nothing. The water laps at the shore. I cast my line into the water, hoping it understands me better than they do. 

Zwine, firstborn of my mother’s second burden, sidles up beside me. He says nothing at first, possibly saving his energy in case breathing becomes difficult. A boy who fishes must learn to hear what is not spoken.

‘It’s quiet,’ he eventually mutters, though I know he does not speak of the river. I nod. It seems safer than responding aloud. I feel a slight tug on my line.  I’m anxious, waiting for the fish to pull harder.  

Zwine turns his head towards me, but I keep my eyes on the water.  

‘The fish tonight are shy. It feels like they know.’

‘They always know,’ I answer, breaking the silence.

I pull in the line—empty again—and send it flying back with a flick. The river gives me a swirl and a wink of starlight for my trouble. A drum beats somewhere beyond the night, reminding us of things we pretend not to remember. Zwine stares at the water. But I know he’s thinking. We all are. Umwenshi has that effect. It invites questions no one wants answers to. I watch the drifting water. The aimlessness of it. And I ask myself, not for the first time, if my father ever stood where I stand. Did he, too, look into this river and wonder what became of the man he was meant to be?

Zwine breaks the silence again. 

‘Kato, do you think he’s still out there?’

I don’t answer. We both know the question doesn’t need one.

We do not catch a single fish, though we linger by the river until dawn creeps into the sky. By the time we leave, the moon is just a fading smudge, and the stars scatter like coins spilled from a thief’s pocket. Night folds itself away, and morning stretches across the sky. We pull our lines and leave. No one says much. The sun rises with a sleepy eye and a sly smile, and I follow it with a stretch and a sigh. Not because it helps. But because it looks like it should. I pick up my line and my basket, preparing to face the day the way poor boys always do; hoping it doesn’t bite back. As expected, uncle Juma is already under the mango tree like a monument erected in honour of the art of doing nothing. In one hand, his loyal gourd of palm wine; in the other, the world’s smallest ambition. He is my father’s brother. Once that meant lineage, obligation and stories about hunting impalas. Now it mostly means he’s always drunk with the smell of fermented dreams.

‘Kato,’ he calls out.

‘Good morning, uncle Juma?’

‘Good morning.’

He holds out his hand, the palm wine bottle clutched in his grip. 

‘Hold this for me,’ he says.

I set down my fishing line and basket, stepping closer. ‘Sure.’

He fumbles into his pocket and brings out a crumpled twenty-kwacha note, folding it into my palm like a secret. 

‘Buy yourself food,’ he says.

‘Thank you.’

‘The pleasure is mine,’ he says.

He takes back his bottle, nods and waves me off.

‘Peace be with you, my boy.’

‘Bye, uncle.’

Uncle Juma mumbles and ambles away, like a man who follows no drumbeat but his own. The breeze takes his voice and carries it off—  better that way, for sometimes words, like loose goats, are best left to wander. I am grateful for the wind. It saved both of us from the embarrassment of understanding. I watch him until the last of his shadow melts into the underbrush; his back bending with each stride like a man bowing to a story older than himself. That’s his way, disappearing like regrets you swear you’ll tend tomorrow.

The path to the river stretches long. A journey not measured in distance, but in the questions it awakens. It is the kind of walk that makes you wonder why you’re still doing it. It’s pointless, if you ask my feet. Yet noble, if you ask my pride. When I arrive, the river greets me with a smile too wide to be trusted. It dances, flirts and bubbles. A professional liar. The river is the sort of place that looks serene only because it has no job, no debts, no sweat and answers to no clock. 

I find a rock—same as always—let my feet slide into the cold water, and put my basket down like someone settling into old habits. I pluck a worm from the jar and skew it onto the hook. 

‘Even the river has its mood,’ my grandfather once said, ‘but it never forgets how to hide secrets.’

A dragonfly buzzes by, surely late for a council of insects. I lower the line into the river and watch as the water does what it always does—  acting indifferent. I stay still, like I’m supposed to. Fishing rewards those who don’t try too hard. A pull. Then another. I react like I’ve done it a hundred times. Maybe I have. A splash. A silver flash. A bream. I place it in my basket with all the drama of a man who’s done it too many times to be impressed. Just as I’m about to enjoy the silence, here comes my stepbrothers. They are panting, loud enough to wake the ancestors. And full of stories I’m not asking for.

‘Kato,’ Zwine shouts.

‘Yes, Zwine.’  

‘You’re about to leave for Blantyre,’

I sing with excitement. ‘Journey to Blantyre! Journey to my father!’ 

My brothers embrace me. ‘Congratulations,’ they say.

‘Yes brother,’ I answer. ‘I’m going.’

As they turn away, I grab my line and basket because being alone doesn’t feel like a good idea. I run. Then, BANG! A shot in the forest. I stop like a guilty man hearing his name. The air becomes thick. The trees aren’t talking. And then comes my stepbrothers, running back like they have seen the bill before the meal.

I look into the woods. And see her. Not a spirit. Not a vision. Just an old woman with a long stick. But somehow, it feels worse.

‘Who are you?’ I manage to ask.

‘Kato! Run!’ she shouts as she fades into the towering trees.

I step back, trying to make sense of it all. I then hear another round of gunshots. This time, they are aimed at me. I stagger. Feeling the burn of the bullets. I try to get up and run, but more bullets come in. The force of them sends me tumbling into the river. The cold-water rushes around my soul. Why kill a ten-year-old boy? Clever, sure. But cleverness is no crime.

My brothers hold me in their arms. Zwine’s hands tremble as he holds me. 

‘Don’t leave us, Kato,’ he pleads.

‘I caught a fish today,’ I say, blood sliding out of my mouth. The words slip from my lips like the last breath of a dying wind.

Zwine sobs hard, the way boys try not to but always do. ‘Kato!’ 

But my eyes are already closing. The world is growing darker around me. The river carries away my strength. My breath. And my life. All I can think of is, why?

I wake up next to a river that doesn’t have the decency to be familiar. I stand and realise I am not breathing quite the same.

‘So, this is death,’ I mutter. “Doesn’t feel very dramatic.”

That’s when I see her. Our mysterious elder from Mbako, sitting like she has been waiting for my confusion.

‘You again,’ I say. ‘Any chance you explain what’s going on?’

‘I’m a guide,’ she muses. ‘But I don’t give directions.’

I frown. ‘What kind of guide is that?’

‘The good kind.’

We go back and forth. Me: confused. Her: cryptic.

And just before she can actually help, poof. She vanished. Like all the important people in my life.

‘Typical,’ I say.

Then I spot a line of ants.

‘Well, I’ve followed worse ideas,’ I sigh. And follow them into whatever comes next. 

Father had a saying: “Ants are more dependable than people when you’re lost.” At this point, I am inclined to agree. He claimed ants could smell where life hid. I only hoped they had not forgotten. I walk with the ghosts of my people. They sing, as ancestors tend to do, loud enough to be heard and vague enough to be misinterpreted. I join in, like a child in a church who doesn’t know the words but wants to belong. They don’t turn to look at me. It is probably for the best. The forest ends in a road. It is straight, dead, with all the charm of a council form. Then the ants vanish. Their job is done.

A blue vehicle speeds by. I wave. The driver doesn’t wave back. Shocking. I stand beside the road as more cars pass me. Then a white van appears and stops at the edge of the road. I walk to the vehicle. But as I draw closer, I realise that I still have the height of a hyena’s smile. And so, I stroll into the forest, searching for a rock. My small fingers cradle a rock, lug it over near the car and climb. I peer through the window, but my breath catches in my throat. The van is empty. 

I close my eyes and open them again. ‘Uncle Juma! How is this true?’

‘Come in, Kato,’ he replies like he hadn’t missed ten years and a funeral.

I open the door. ‘I came to help you find your way home,’ he explains.

‘What happened?’ 

‘You got shot in Mbako village. You died,’

Uncle Juma drives back onto the road. ‘Where are we?’

‘Nairobi,’

‘I thought Mbako was in Malawi?’ 

‘It is.’

Uncle Juma’s knuckles harden around the wheel as a vehicle appears in the mirror. ‘Get down!’ He shouts, pushing the accelerator to the floor. 

And like a good nephew, and an even better coward, I scramble to hide under the passenger seat as gunshots tear through the air. The van rocks under the force of the bullets, and uncle Juma takes a hit. The van swerves off the road, spinning out of control. I cling to the seat as it crashes into a tree, and before I know it, my small body flings through the window.

I crash onto the ground hard. Dazed, I open my eyes and see uncle Juma slumped over the steering wheel.

‘Uncle Juma, what should I do?’ I cry out.

‘Run!’ he shouts, his voice weak before he dies.

I run into the forest like a goat fleeing a fire. Behind me, men with guns crash through the trees because grown men always find it easier to shoot children than face their own failures. I run like the son of a lion, though I am only a boy of ten summers. The trees speak of warnings, but I do not stop until my breath betrays me. I crouch beneath the silence as the men run past—  blinded by their own rage. I take a new path. That is when I see it. Tall. Still. Holding the same gun that turned Mbako’s night into mourning.

I run again. My steps are prayers. A bullet finds my chest. Yet I feel no pain; only the heat of purpose. The cold of betrayal.

‘Why?’ I cry to the gods. They say nothing.

I reach a cliff. The earth ends, but my story hasn’t. I look back. The figure behind the mask grins. A hyena smelling birth. I leap. More bullets tear through me. My body twists in the air like a leaf caught between seasons. Below, crocodiles wait like ancestors ready to test my spirit.

‘Why me?’ I shout.

The river says nothing. But it catches me. I swim and fight the water, the wounds and the weariness. I reach the bank and collapse on a log.

But then I hear something. 

‘Not again.’ 

I open my eyes and think: ‘If this is heaven, the mangoes are certainly fresh.’ My stepsister sits beside me, a girl of six seasons, sucking the life out of a ripe mango. To the left, uncle Juma stumbles in his usual duet with alcohol. Some things, it seems, even death cannot change. 

But here’s the kicker: I am not in Nairobi anymore. This is Mbako. My Mbako. 

I stand. The world doesn’t ask for permission. I walk to the river because in Mbako, the river always knows first. I see my stepbrothers—inconsistent sons of chaos—running to the river, calling my name like they suddenly care. Then comes Taizya. Sixteen summers old. And still carrying the burden of being born first. He doesn’t see me. The dead are often invisible. Even to the ones they love. We reach the river. The place where endings begin. Taizya had been there when I died. Not close enough to stop it, though. 

Then gunshots. We run. With no plan. No weapons. Just legs and whatever prayers are still pending. A boy of ten summers is shot. Taizya sees Zwine already in the river, splashing like a mad monkey. He runs toward him and dives in. They pull him out of the water, but he’s already home. Me? I chase the noise. Because you always run towards the truth. As I draw near a clearing, I see something. It’s holding the same gun from Nairobi. The same one. Always the same one.

‘I’m sorry, Kato,’ it says in a hoarse voice.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For killing you,’ it replies, the grin on its face bent like an old hoe. ‘You didn’t deserve happiness with your father.’

‘You are right,’ I say. ‘And wrong. But neither truth nor lies can raise the dead.’ 

The gun rests on its shoulder. 

‘But my father taught me one thing,’ I continue… 

‘And what is that?’ it asks. 

‘Vengeance is for the gods,’ I say. ‘I’ve forgiven you.’

As I turn my back, it opens fire. But the forest belongs to older powers. Grey skies materialise out of nowhere. A lightning strikes down from above, hitting my killer. It stumbles to the ground as rain teems down in the forest.

I walk back and remove its mask.

‘Mother?’ 

‘I’m not your mother,’ she gasps, blood trickling from her lips. ‘Your father loved another. She died ten summers ago.’

Tears stream down my face as another bolt of lightning flashes. I stand up and run, shouting, ‘Mother, I love you! Please don’t leave me!’

The lightning comes fast before my mother’s eyes. But it hears my cries. It vanishes as she closes her eyes. Even the gods have heard my grief.

I run back to my mother and throw my arms around her waist. 

‘Why?’ she asks.

‘Because I love you, mama,’ I reply, drawing back to force a smile despite the sting of tears. ‘You made me who I am—  a boy of ten summers.’

She holds me close as tears slide down her face. ‘I love you too.’

Then she stands up. The rain doesn’t stop. Not even for her. She walks away with the same pain the village women carry when they bury their dead before sunrise. 

But before she disappears, she asks, ‘Who are you?’

‘A boy of ten summers,’ I say, as my mother vanishes into the folds of the morning. 

But the words taste wrong. They sound like a mask I am forced to wear. I will return, I think. With a name of my own. Free from the myths they write for me. For now, I am only a boy of ten summers, still wondering if love is enough.