Nearly three months had passed since Mubita, Chipo, and little Luyando had arrived at the Sikalima farm.
To anyone passing by, they looked like the perfect family.
Mubita had become an excellent shepherd. Farmers from neighboring villages often complimented the condition of Mr. Sikalima's cattle. The herd was healthier than it had been in years, and even Mr. Sikalima, who had since returned from Choma, was pleased with the care his animals had received.
"You've done remarkably well," he told Mubita one afternoon after inspecting the herd.
Mubita smiled modestly.
"I only followed the lessons you taught me."
Mr. Sikalima shook his head.
"No. Lessons can be taught, but dedication comes from the heart."
Those words filled Mubita with pride.
He wanted nothing more than to prove worthy of the trust that had been placed in him.
Yet while his reputation on the farm continued to grow, something far more important was slowly slipping away from him.
His marriage.
---
Every morning, Mubita left the house before Chipo had fully awakened.
Every evening, he returned long after sunset.
The cattle demanded constant attention.
Some cows had recently calved.
A young bull had injured one of its legs.
The northern grazing paddock needed constant monitoring because predators had been spotted nearby.
There always seemed to be another task waiting.
By the time Mubita returned home each night, exhaustion had replaced conversation.
He would wash, eat quietly, and fall asleep almost immediately.
At first, Chipo accepted it without complaint.
She knew he worked hard.
She admired his commitment.
But weeks turned into months.
The silence between them grew longer.
---
One Thursday evening, Chipo sat alone beneath the mango tree after preparing supper.
The moon hung low above the fields.
From the distance came the familiar sound of cowbells as Mubita brought the herd home.
Luyando had already fallen asleep inside the house after spending the afternoon playing with Hamusonde.
Mrs. Bwalya walked over carrying two cups of warm tea.
"May I join you?"
"Of course."
The two women sat quietly for several moments.
"You've been unusually quiet these past few weeks," Mrs. Bwalya observed gently.
Chipo forced a smile.
"I'm fine."
Mrs. Bwalya smiled knowingly.
"My daughter..."
She stirred her tea slowly.
"When a woman says she's fine without looking you in the eyes, she's usually carrying something heavy."
Chipo looked down.
Tears threatened to escape.
Mrs. Bwalya reached over and held her hand.
"You don't have to tell me if you're not ready."
For several moments, neither spoke.
Finally, Chipo whispered,
"I miss my husband."
Mrs. Bwalya frowned slightly.
"But he comes home every evening."
"He comes home."
She paused.
"But he isn't really here."
The older woman remained silent, allowing her to continue.
"He leaves before sunrise."
"He comes back after dark."
"When we eat, he's too tired to talk."
"When we sleep, he's asleep before I can even ask how his day was."
She wiped away a tear.
"I know he's working."
"I know he's trying to build a better life for us."
"But sometimes..."
Her voice trembled.
"I feel as though I'm living alone."
Mrs. Bwalya squeezed her hand gently.
"My dear..."
"Many good marriages are not destroyed by hatred."
"They're destroyed by neglect."
---
That same evening, Mubita was still in the kraal checking one of the pregnant cows.
Old Hamusonde approached carrying a lantern.
"You should go home."
Mubita looked up.
"I'm almost finished."
"You've been saying that for an hour."
"The cow looks uncomfortable."
"It'll survive until morning."
Mubita sighed.
"I just want everything to be perfect."
Hamusonde leaned against the fence.
"Tell me something."
"When was the last time you and your wife took a walk together?"
Mubita looked puzzled.
"I don't remember."
"When was the last time you made her laugh?"
"I..."
He couldn't answer.
The old man nodded slowly.
"I thought so."
Mubita lowered his eyes.
"I've been busy."
"I know."
"But remember another Tonga saying."
He smiled kindly before speaking.
> "The man who waters only one field should not be surprised when the other dries."
The words struck Mubita deeply.
Hamusonde continued.
"You've been watering this farm."
He pointed toward the cattle.
"But have you been watering your home?"
For the first time in weeks, Mubita felt a sharp pain of guilt.
---
That night, he entered the house quietly.
Chipo was sitting by the small table, mending one of Luyando's shirts under the light of a paraffin lamp.
She looked up and smiled politely.
"You're late."
"I'm sorry."
"The pregnant cow needed attention."
"I understand."
Her answer was gentle.
Too gentle.
Mubita sat beside her.
"I'm sorry."
She looked surprised.
"For what?"
"For... everything."
She put down the shirt.
"You've done nothing wrong."
"But I haven't done enough right."
She studied his face.
"I know you're trying."
"I want to give you and Luyando a better life."
"You already have."
He shook his head.
"I haven't been a good husband lately."
Silence filled the room.
Then Chipo smiled sadly.
"I don't need a rich husband."
"I need my husband."
Those simple words pierced his heart more deeply than any accusation could have.
He reached for her hand.
"I'm going to do better."
She squeezed his fingers gently.
"I hope so."
From the small bedroom, Luyando murmured in his sleep.
The young couple looked toward the doorway.
Neither realized that this quiet conversation had come just in time.
Had they continued drifting apart without speaking honestly, the damage might have become far more difficult to repair.
Outside, the wind rustled through the leaves of the great mango tree.
The farm remained peaceful under the stars.
But peace, Mr. Sikalima often said, was not something that happened by accident.
Like a healthy herd, a fruitful field, or a happy marriage, it required constant care.
And although Mubita had finally recognized the first cracks in his relationship, neither he nor Chipo knew that greater trials still lay ahead—trials that would test not only their marriage, but also the trust that held everyone on the farm together.