In the days when the moon listened to human whispers and the night carried every word farther than a drumbeat, there lived a man called Mbabaz. People said Mbabaz lived well. His house was wide, his sofa soft like the belly of a resting cow, and his compound always smelled of roasted coffee and fresh cinnamon rolls.
One evening, when the sun had slipped behind the hills and the crickets had begun their gossip, a young woman named Karendi came to visit Mbabaz for a sleepover. Karendi was the kind of girl whose words flowed like a river after the rainy season—open, loud, and fearless. She spoke her heart without tying knots around her thoughts.
Now Karendi had told Mbabaz something earlier. “Mbabaz,” she had said, “I want a love for life. A man to walk beside me until our hair becomes the color of ash.” But Mbabaz, who had lived long enough to know the weight of promises, shook his head gently. “Karendi,” he told her, “the path you speak of is long. My feet are not walking that road. What we have is only laughter and the passing of time.” And Karendi, being young and light-hearted, did not fight his words. She laughed, as young people laugh when the future still looks wide like a savanna.
So that night they stayed together in Mbabaz’s house, enjoying stories and easy company. Now Mbabaz was finishing bathing in the washroom while Karendi sat on the soft sofa, her legs folded beneath her like in a syntribation.
While she waited, she took out her phone. Mbabaz was not trying to listen, but the walls were thin and the night was quiet. Words travel easily when the world is still. Karendi called a young man. “Eh,” she said into the phone, laughing softly, “You hear? Now I have kamûndû.” Kamûndû — a baby. “Ujipange,” she continued. “Prepare yourself. Because I will come with him.”
On the other side of the call, the young man’s voice rose in protest. Mbabaz could not hear every word, but the tone carried clearly. The young man was shocked, confused, pushing back like a goat refusing to cross a river. Yet as the conversation went on, the argument changed. It was no longer about the baby. It became something small and foolish. Like two men arguing whether Arsenal or Tottenham plays better football. Noise, pride, and nothing important.
Mbabaz leaned against the wall, listening without meaning to. But something heavy settled in his chest. It was not jealousy. No. Mbabaz had never promised Karendi anything, and she had never promised him either. Their time together was only like a market day—busy, bright, and finished by sunrise.
What troubled him was something else. He looked toward the sitting room where Karendi waited for him, laughing softly into the phone. And Mbabaz thought of the young man on the other side of the call. A young man somewhere in the darkness… perhaps dreaming of a future with this girl… perhaps believing he would build a home with her. Mbabaz sighed. “Eh,” he murmured to himself, “the world is not simple. It is hard.” For here was a girl who would soon walk into his bed…Yet somewhere far away was a young man being prepared to welcome her—with a baby. Mbabaz shook his head slowly. And that night he learned a quiet lesson: a man may enjoy the sweetness of honey, but he must remember that somewhere, another man may be asked to keep the bees.
So, children who sit around the fire and listen to this story, remember: not every laugh carries innocence and not every promise is spoken aloud. And that is the story of Mbabaz and the girl who spoke too freely.
One evening, when the sun had slipped behind the hills and the crickets had begun their gossip, a young woman named Karendi came to visit Mbabaz for a sleepover. Karendi was the kind of girl whose words flowed like a river after the rainy season—open, loud, and fearless. She spoke her heart without tying knots around her thoughts.
Now Karendi had told Mbabaz something earlier. “Mbabaz,” she had said, “I want a love for life. A man to walk beside me until our hair becomes the color of ash.” But Mbabaz, who had lived long enough to know the weight of promises, shook his head gently. “Karendi,” he told her, “the path you speak of is long. My feet are not walking that road. What we have is only laughter and the passing of time.” And Karendi, being young and light-hearted, did not fight his words. She laughed, as young people laugh when the future still looks wide like a savanna.
So that night they stayed together in Mbabaz’s house, enjoying stories and easy company. Now Mbabaz was finishing bathing in the washroom while Karendi sat on the soft sofa, her legs folded beneath her like in a syntribation.
While she waited, she took out her phone. Mbabaz was not trying to listen, but the walls were thin and the night was quiet. Words travel easily when the world is still. Karendi called a young man. “Eh,” she said into the phone, laughing softly, “You hear? Now I have kamûndû.” Kamûndû — a baby. “Ujipange,” she continued. “Prepare yourself. Because I will come with him.”
On the other side of the call, the young man’s voice rose in protest. Mbabaz could not hear every word, but the tone carried clearly. The young man was shocked, confused, pushing back like a goat refusing to cross a river. Yet as the conversation went on, the argument changed. It was no longer about the baby. It became something small and foolish. Like two men arguing whether Arsenal or Tottenham plays better football. Noise, pride, and nothing important.
Mbabaz leaned against the wall, listening without meaning to. But something heavy settled in his chest. It was not jealousy. No. Mbabaz had never promised Karendi anything, and she had never promised him either. Their time together was only like a market day—busy, bright, and finished by sunrise.
What troubled him was something else. He looked toward the sitting room where Karendi waited for him, laughing softly into the phone. And Mbabaz thought of the young man on the other side of the call. A young man somewhere in the darkness… perhaps dreaming of a future with this girl… perhaps believing he would build a home with her. Mbabaz sighed. “Eh,” he murmured to himself, “the world is not simple. It is hard.” For here was a girl who would soon walk into his bed…Yet somewhere far away was a young man being prepared to welcome her—with a baby. Mbabaz shook his head slowly. And that night he learned a quiet lesson: a man may enjoy the sweetness of honey, but he must remember that somewhere, another man may be asked to keep the bees.
So, children who sit around the fire and listen to this story, remember: not every laugh carries innocence and not every promise is spoken aloud. And that is the story of Mbabaz and the girl who spoke too freely.
