Title: The Mango Tree by the River

Chapter One: The Boy with Muddy Feet and a Heart Full of Dreams
My name is Kipchirchir, and Kiptegan has been my home for as long as I can
remember. It’s a small village tucked between the ridges of Kericho County,
where the hills roll gently and the tea plantations stretch like green blankets.
Everyone knew everyone. Life moved at the pace of a bicycle on a dusty
path—slow but certain. You could smell firewood smoke in the morning and
hear lullabies echo across farms at night.
Here, time wasn’t kept by clocks but by roosters, church bells, and the
whistling of herders returning home. What we lacked in riches, we made up
for in community—sharing what little we had and watching out for one
another like family.
I was born the third of five children. Our home stood on a slope near a tall
eucalyptus grove. It had a tin roof patched with banana leaves and walls
coated with layers of dry mud that cracked every dry season. Inside, we had
two small rooms—one for sleeping, the other for everything else.
My father, arap Kirui, was a silent man with hands that told stories—rough
from the hoe, darkened by the sun. He grew maize, tea, and sometimes
sweet potatoes when the rains were kind. Mama was the heart of our home.
Her laugh could lift clouds, and her stories—woven between stirring porridge
or braiding my sister’s hair—fed us on nights when the food was little.
Each morning, I ran barefoot along the red path to the river. That river was
my friend. It whispered when I was sad and sang when I was happy. The
frogs croaked like old men arguing over politics, and dragonflies danced
above the water like tiny prophets of joy.
The journey wasn’t easy—it meant walking nearly a mile each way with a
yellow jerrican—but I didn’t mind. For me, the river was a place to dream. I
imagined cities with buildings taller than trees, books with answers to every
question, and shoes that didn’t fill with mud.
One misty morning, as dew clung to my legs and the sun struggled to rise, I
saw someone unusual beneath the mango tree by the river bend. It was an
old man I’d never seen before. He sat still, like a memory, with a walking
stick and a hat wide enough to hide his eyes.
“Shikamoo,” I said, trying to sound confident though my heart raced.
“Marahaba, kijana,” he responded with a smile, slow and soft, like someone
who had waited years to be spoken to.
His name was Mzee Baraka, and though I didn’t know it then, that single
exchange would begin a journey that would change my life—and maybe
even our village.
That day, we didn’t talk for long. Just a few pleasantries, a joke about frogs
needing friends, and a chuckle that warmed me from inside. But something
in his presence stayed with me. He wasn’t like the other elders who scolded
or grumbled. Mzee Baraka listened—to the birds, the river, and to me.
I didn’t know what he saw in me, barefoot and muddy. But for the first time, I
wondered if I was more than a boy who fetched water. Maybe—just maybe—I
could be something else, something more.

Chapter Two: The Mango Tree Stranger Who Knew Too Much
The next morning, I woke up with one thought in my mind: the old man by
the river.
It wasn’t just that he spoke kindly. There was something in the way he
looked at me—as if he could see all the dreams I hadn’t told anyone.
Something about his calmness made the world feel less noisy.
I filled the yellow jerrican and headed down the familiar footpath, brushing
past tall napier grass and dodging puddles left from last night’s rain. But this
time, I wasn’t just fetching water. I was hoping he’d be there again.
And he was.
Seated in the same spot beneath the mango tree, his legs stretched out
before him, walking stick across his lap. The wide-brimmed hat still shielded
most of his face, but I could see a faint smile as I approached.
“Ah, kijana,” he said, without looking up. “I thought you’d return.”
I stopped a few feet away, unsure if I was intruding. “I wanted to ask about
the frogs,” I said shyly.
He chuckled. “Did they tell you anything today?”
I shook my head. “Just noise.”
“That’s what most people think,” he said, tapping the earth with his stick.
“But noise is what you hear before you learn how to listen.”
I didn’t understand what he meant, but I nodded anyway.
Over the next few days, our encounters turned into conversations. He never
forced anything, just asked strange and simple questions.
“What does the sky remind you of today?” “If this mango tree could speak,
what stories would it tell?” “Why do you think ants never walk alone?”
No one had ever asked me questions like that. In school, we were told
answers. At home, we were told what to do. But here, under this tree, I was
asked to think.
One morning, I brought him a ripe guava from my mother’s tree. He smiled
and broke it in half, giving me the larger piece.
“You are a kind boy,” he said. “And curious. That is a dangerous
combination.”
“Why dangerous?” I asked.
“Because the world doesn’t always like people who ask too many questions.
But those are the people who change things.”
His words wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I didn’t know exactly
what I was changing, but I liked the sound of it.
Slowly, he started teaching me. Not like my schoolteachers did—with chalk
and shouting—but with stories and comparisons.
He showed me how to use shadows to tell the time, how to count using river
stones, and how to identify plants that whispered secrets if you watched
them closely.
One afternoon, he gave me a puzzle made from twigs shaped into squares.
“Can you move just two sticks to make three equal boxes?” he asked.
I struggled. I got it wrong. Again and again. He never laughed. Instead, he’d
say, “Try again. There’s always another way.”
Eventually, I solved it. When I did, he nodded and said, “You see? Failure is
only a teacher who wants you to ask better questions.”
After many days of talking, I finally asked him why he lived alone.
He looked at the river for a long time before answering.
“I was a teacher in Nairobi. My wife and I loved children, but we never had
our own. She passed away many years ago, and I came back to Kiptegan to
rest. To listen. To remember who I was before the city noise buried my
heart.”
His voice was heavy, but peaceful. He didn’t sound sad—just… full of
memories.
“I have nothing left to give the world, Kipchirchir,” he added. “But maybe I
can leave behind a little wisdom. If someone like you is willing to carry it.”
I didn’t say anything. But in that moment, I knew I had found something rare
—not just a mentor, but a doorway into a new way of seeing.
Under the mango tree, with the river whispering and the wind nudging the
leaves, I took my first real steps into the world of learning—not from a book,
but from a soul who saw me long before