by Antonio Napoli

A man named Oluhiemi lost his wife, taken from life by violent fevers. He lived with his only son, Sibongile, in a remote African village, on the edge of the great river that quenches the Kalahari Desert, never having known the sea. Devotedly, the man took care of the hut, the small garden, and the boy, who grew more restless as he aged, though he concealed it with discretion. Life flowed with an almost unchanging quiet, and among the trees and cultivated fields, nothing seemed out of place.

But one day, young Sibongile decided to leave. The unrest in his chest had become an overpowering voice: he would enlist in the colonial army. Though saddened, his father did not resist; he knew well that a young man’s heart cannot be held back by mere words. So the son departed, and days turned into months. Every night, the father prayed to the Lord of the sky for his return, knowing he was journeying toward a distant war. Time passed between hope and fear, between letters that never arrived and restless dreams that haunted the man’s sleep.

The war ended, and the army, returning, passed through the village. The father ran among the soldiers, scanned every face, called out his son’s name. But he was told that Sibongile was missing. No one knew anything more.

What had become of Sibongile?
During the journey back, overwhelmed by exhaustion, the young man had fallen from the canoe that carried him along the river. Rescued by some fishermen, he found himself without memory, a wandering soul without a name. He roamed aimlessly until one day, while immersing himself in the waters of a tributary, a stone caught his attention. Following the current, he found more, as if they traced a path. When the water became too deep, he returned to the shore. He lifted his gaze and saw a marabou flying above his head. At that moment, a thud echoed behind him. He turned, and like a lightning bolt, the memory of his fall struck him: the canoe, the rushing current, the darkness, the river. And in a single instant, the past revealed itself to him in full. He looked at his hand and understood that those stones were speaking of him.

That very day, as Oluhiemi went to the river, he spotted a ragged but smiling soldier on the opposite shore. His eyes filled with tears, and the riverbed seemed to shrink so that their embrace could happen without delay.

Back home, Sibongile washed, dressed, and sat at the table. He ate heartily and told his father of his adventure:
“You know, my father, why I left? I was searching for something more. The quiet of a life without glory was not enough for me. But when I lost my memory, nothing became more important than knowing who I was, what my name was, where I came from.”

Then, rising and approaching the window, he noticed a patch of barren earth in the garden, surrounded by lush grass and flowers.
“What happened there?” he asked. “During my absence, did you neglect the garden?”

The father was moved and exclaimed, “Neither my waiting nor my building was in vain!”
And he told his story:

“Every time I went to the river, I picked up a stone and brought it home. Over time, in the garden, I built a small structure. Before placing each stone, however, I took a brush and ink. Year after year, I wrote your name on every stone. Winters gave way to springs, seedlings bent to the wind, and I told myself: ‘When my son returns, we will pray together in this house of stone.’

One day, a marabou came to rest upon the structure. I began to feed it; it would not leave, and my heart told me to do so. I learned that it had lost its young, just as I learned of your disappearance, my son. You can imagine its sorrow and mine!

But as time passed, I looked at the structure and thought: ‘What use are you? You can shelter neither my son in life nor in death.’
And so, little by little, I dismantled it. Stone by stone, I returned each piece to the river. The marabou, perched on a tree, watched me motionless. It waited until I threw the last stone beyond the wall, then spread its wings and soared into the air, dissolving into the sky.”

The son remained silent, savoring those words as if seeking a hidden meaning within them. Finally, in a calm voice, he said:
“Each of us was lost in our own endless waiting.”

The father gazed at him for a long time, then embraced him and whispered:
“Waiting is like the marabou that descends to the ground and remains there, impassive. But one day, having satisfied its longing for the sky, it finds its courage, spreads its wings, and takes flight once more.”