SON OF HEKIMA

 

CHAPTER FOUR

When the Light Fades

Buntu’s father, Hekima, had grown frail and pale, a ghost of the man he once was. A rare and vicious parasite had invaded his lungs, rendering him unable to eat, speak, or even rise from his own bed. Once a man of great resilience and wisdom, he now lay still, his breaths shallow and labored. Buntu watched helplessly, heart aching, as the man he had always admired—despite their frequent disagreements—slowly withered before his eyes.

The local church doubled as a small hospital, and it was the only place they could afford to seek help. Beatrice, Buntu’s mother, had drained their savings—every last coin and note—hoping for a cure. But no medicine came close. No prayer, no treatment, could turn the tide.

Now Hekima lay motionless, eyes sunken and hope gone. Beatrice cried herself to sleep most nights, the weight of grief suffocating her spirit. The baby’s cries echoed through the house, unrelenting and mournful. And in those dark hours, it was Buntu who would rise quietly, rocking the infant in tired arms, trying to give his mother moments of rest from her quiet suffering.

His once-vibrant mind now dulled, Buntu lost faith in his inventions. The tools that once gave him joy gathered dust in a corner. The gears in his imagination jammed, as if his father’s illness had sapped every spark of creativity from his soul.

Word spread through the village. Hekima—the rock, the counselor, the peacemaker—was dying. Neighbors trickled in, bearing gifts and warm food. Some came with prayers, others with tears. All left with solemn goodbyes: “Mpaka tupatane tena.” Until we meet again.

A few days later, Hekima drew his final breath. He left behind a widow, two children, and a void too vast for words.

The funeral procession moved like a solemn river through the village paths. Dust rose, incense burned, and songs of farewell filled the sky. Among the mourners was Sister Faith, Buntu’s beloved science teacher, her presence calm and dignified in her white tunic and purple rosary.

"Buntu," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, "it's hard seeing you and your family like this. Come see me when you're ready."

Her words lingered like a riddle in Buntu’s mind.

"See me when you're ready..."
What did she mean?
Was there hope?
A secret?
A new beginning?

Days passed. Buntu barely spoke. He sat outside for hours, staring into the fields as though the answers lay hidden in the tall grass. His mother often found him lost in thought.

“Stop thinking too much,” she would say. “You’ll grow old before your time.”

Eventually, the question burning inside him became unbearable. He dusted off his shirt, combed his hair, and walked the long road back to the school gates he hadn’t crossed in weeks.

The sight of Sister Faith standing there brought a strange comfort. Her smile was warm, but her eyes carried a hidden weight.

“Buntu!” she said, arms open in welcome.

“Yes, Sister... I’m here. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

She hesitated, her voice faltering for a moment.

“I re-applied for your scholarship... to St. Bridget’s School for the Gifted. But—” her lips trembled, “they turned it down. There are no funds left. I’m so, so sorry, Buntu.”

A single tear slid down her cheek, catching the sunlight like a jewel.

The world shifted beneath him. The air turned heavy. It felt like the very earth wanted to split open and swallow him whole.

He nodded silently, too numb to speak, and began the long walk home. He didn't lift his head once.

When Beatrice saw him, her heart sank. “What is it, my son?” she asked, voice already cracking.

He told her everything.

She said nothing, only pulled him into her arms and held him tight. The world disappeared as she hummed a lullaby through her sobs, a melody soft and ancient—one his father used to sing when the nights grew cold.

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