No one in the village remembered exactly what he was waiting for. Some said a son who had gone to fight in the civil war and never wrote back. Others whispered of a wife who had walked into the bush one night and vanished like smoke. The children made up their own stories: that he was waiting for a golden bird, or for the sky to crack open and pour down coins.
One day, a young man from the city came to the village. He was not Ny—too young, too clean-shaven, carrying a leather satchel. The children followed him, fascinated by his shiny shoes. He stopped at the baobab and looked at Kwame.
Kwame sat among them and closed his eyes. The firelight danced on his face. For the first time in thirty years, he was not waiting.