Our village is beautiful. Although the earth is cracked, and the goats are thin, and the rain never pours, we are too young to know any different. Each day is filled with joy. In the evenings, we sit together by the fire. Mama ladles out thick globules of stew that has been simmering for hours, whilst Baba tells us tales of lands far away from our own. Bibi dances alongside her friends, shaking her braids long after the last of the embers have died out. In the morning, the man with crooked knees and matted grey hair hobbles around the wasteland to meander amongst the scraps of rusted metal. He has no name of his own. The villagers refer to him in varying degrees of unkindness. Baba calls him stupid. Mama does not speak of him at all. Each Sunday morning, I am tasked with carrying two heavy buckets from the well in the eastern part of the village. On my journey, I always meet with my cousin - Kwento - who lives in a large hut with his six siblings. Together we heave the metal buckets across the dusty earth, wincing each time a precious drop spills onto the dirt. On this particular Sunday, Kwento walks ahead of me. Although he is only a few years older, the length of his legs were no match to my own, and I always find myself chasing to keep up with him. Today, he suddenly stops. Pressing his index finger onto his lips, he motions his head towards the metal railing. We are close to the wasteland and the endless clanking of metal rings in our ears. On our tippy toes, we peek over the high fence and watch as the man with no name drags enormous black tyres from one place to another. His hands were thicker than any I had ever seen. They were even bigger than Uncle Oba’s who fixes our shoes when the soles start to peel. Sweat pours profusely from the man’s brow, yet he does not stop for rest. “No wonder they call him crazy”, Kwento murmurs. Although I do not understand why he spends all day within the wasteland, there is a spark of life that radiates from the man which makes me hesitant to agree. We do not speak for the rest of the journey home. When we arrive back, the warm fatty fragrance of stewed beef torments our senses. Mama waves her metal spoon, and we are forced to retreat outside until the evening meal is ready. Bibi is sitting on her favourite rocking chair. Her eyes are closed, but she remains alert to her surroundings. Her soft features mirror Mama’s and if it were not for the grey streaks that pepper her braids, they could almost pass as sisters. “What is wrong Chiko? You are never this quiet…unless you have done something wrong?” she asks, eyes now open, staring intently into mine. I shake my head slowly, watching Kwento kick his faded yellow football against the wall. “Nothing is wrong. I am just thinking about the man with no name, who stumbles around in the wasteland all day. We passed him when we were walking up.” A low rumble emanates from her belly. Bibi chuckles and ruffles my loose hair. “Everybody has a name, little one. He had one too...before his mother passed.” My eyes grow wide and it is my turn to stare at her. “What! You know him? How? He does not speak to anyone.” “Chiko, I have lived on this earth for a very long time. I know many things. He was always an unusual child. While we learnt our numbers, he would prefer to sit amongst the trees or pick fruit for his mother.” “I like to pick fruit.” “Yes, but this was different. He never spoke. Not once. Not even when the other children mocked him and followed him home, piercing him with their cruel words. When his mother passed, he found shelter within the scrap yard. Nobody bothers him there.” For a while, I sit in silence. It was strange to think of a man so large once being a child. Wetness pools into my eyes. I hurriedly wipe them. “Why does nobody call him his real name anymore Bibi?” The elderly woman smiles softly, but there is a tinge of sadness in her eyes. “Sometimes, our actions define who we are.” Before I can reply, Mama’s sonorous yells still my tongue and rouse my belly. Kwento and I race into the small abode, and savour every greasy morsel that passes our lips. *** The seasons pass, my legs grow tall, and so does my ambition. That summer, I wave goodbye to Mama, Baba, Bibi and all of my cousins as I step onboard a stifling red mutatu, en route to the airport. For a while, my life becomes consumed with endless reading and studying, with little else to fill my day. City life is foreign to me. I never quite adjust to the unceasing wail of sirens, and the shuffling of feet above my apartment ceiling. God, however, remains good. He blesses me with a kind husband and the most incredible child, who radiates love so deeply, each one of my days is filled with happiness. A steady routine soon settles into place. School runs and work consume my life, with only the weekend bringing us any reprieve. Even then, we are always busy, engaging in the many excursions that the city has to offer us. I always mean to visit home. But I never quite find the time. One day, our landline rings. It is Mama. Immediately I know something was wrong. As I slam the wired handset into the receiver, my purpose becomes clear again. Within an hour we are packed, and the three of us hurtle in a garish yellow taxi cab towards the airport. I remember nothing of the flight, or the journey home in the overcrowded mutatu. But I will never forget the feeling of stepping onto the dusty ground and realising how much my village has changed. An elderly woman approaches me. It takes me a moment to realise that it is not Bibi that stands before me. “Mama!” I cry, wrapping her up in my arms. Her frame feels so frail against my own, but I quickly push those thoughts aside. Tears flow freely, as do the cups of steaming Red Bush tea. We kiss, hug, and rejoice in our reunion. I dare not think about the news that brought me here. But, soon it is time to face the truth. Bibi is sick. Although her smile remains wide, and her braids remain long, she no longer dances next to the fire or helps Mama to stir the pot. Baba had found an old wheelchair, cleaned it up and oiled the rusty wheels. It is this I now push along the parched earth, singing childhood rhymes Bibi had once taught me. Eventually, we approach a wide stretch of greenery. The lush foliage contrasts greatly with the dusty expanse that surrounds us. I pause, frowning slightly. “Bibi,” I say gently, careful not to startle her. “I don’t remember this part of the village?” The elderly woman’s eyes slowly open, and she gazes at the trees that stand before us. “Do you remember the man with crooked knees who lived amongst the scraps?” I nod slowly, not fully comprehending. “Many years after you left, he passed on. By this time, the wasteland was clear of all metal, but nobody knew what to do with the land so they simply left the gates closed.” She pauses for a moment, regaining her breath. “Over time, we noticed the first shoots sprouting out of the ground. The glossy leaves of the flame lily, the scarlet petals of hibiscus. Eventually, tall trunks of Aloe and Acacia started to rise out from the dirt.” “How did they get there?” I ask. “Our village is parched, there is no greenery for miles around.” Bibi turns to face me, and the sunlight twinkles in her eye. “The man with crooked knees planted them all. This is what he did, morning till night, until he passed. Clearing the scraps, to give life to the seeds.” A lump forms in my throat. I thought of all the cruelty he had endured, from the village children in school, to the unkindness from his neighbours. I thought of every time me and Kwento passed him with our buckets, unknowingly watching him clear the earth for such greatness. Eventually, I brave the question I should have asked many years ago. “What was his real name?” The elderly woman smiles, and for a moment she seems like the Bibi I remember, full of life and energy. “His name was Abeo. The bringer of happiness.” Time stops. Tears pool into my eyes. This time, I do not wipe them away.