20/07/2025
Under the Whispering Tree
It was early morning in the village of Kalumo. The sun had just begun to stretch its golden fingers across the fields, and a light mist curled lazily above the dewy grass. In a small clay-brick home at the edge of the village, ten-year-old Luyando slipped outside with her journal in hand.
She walked barefoot through the soft earth, the path still cool from the night. As she reached the big fig tree behind her home, she smiled. This tree wasn’t just old, it was a keeper of secrets, of songs, and of shade. Her grandfather used to call it The Whispering Tree, saying that if you sat still long enough, it would tell you stories in the breeze.
Luyando sat on a flat rock under its wide, leafy arms. The birds were already busy above her, chirping like gossiping aunties. A dove cooed softly from a nearby branch. The only other sounds were the wind rustling through the leaves and the distant bleating of goats from the neighbor’s kraal.
She opened her journal and began to write:
"This morning is quiet. The air is fresh, and I can smell the earth. The tree is whispering again. Maybe today it will tell me where the rainbow sleeps..."
Time drifted like a cloud. She didn't need a clock to know when it was time to go help her mother in the garden. But before she left, she placed a hand on the tree's bark, rough and warm from the sun.
"See you tomorrow," she whispered.
And as if in reply, a soft wind stirred the leaves above her, like the tree was saying, "I'll be waiting."
To be continued....
