The morning after Hamusonde returned from the hospital, the atmosphere at Sikalima Farm felt different.
Although work continued as usual, everyone moved with greater appreciation for the old man who had spent more than three decades caring for the land.
Instead of walking long distances, Hamusonde now sat beneath the veranda each morning, greeting workers as they arrived.
One by one, they stopped to greet him.
"Good morning, Tata."
"Good morning, my son."
"How are you feeling today?"
"Much stronger."
Although he smiled, everyone could see that age had finally begun to slow him.
---
Mr. Sikalima had also changed.
Watching his oldest friend collapse had reminded him that time waited for no one.
For several days he spent long hours inside the farmhouse office, opening dusty cupboards that had not been touched in years.
Old maps.
Receipts.
Photographs.
Letters written by his late father.
Mrs. Bwalya found him one afternoon surrounded by piles of documents.
She smiled.
"Planning to clean the whole office?"
Mr. Sikalima chuckled.
"I've been avoiding this room for years."
"Why now?"
He carefully picked up an old leather-bound book.
"Because there are some things that shouldn't die with me."
---
That evening, after supper, Mr. Sikalima sent Luyando to fetch Mubita.
"Papa says he wants to see you."
"Now?"
"Yes."
Mubita excused himself from Chipo and walked to the farmhouse.
When he entered the office, he noticed several old boxes arranged neatly on the floor.
Mr. Sikalima looked up from his desk.
"Close the door."
Mubita obeyed.
"I've been waiting for the right time to show you something."
He opened one of the boxes and carefully removed a worn leather ledger.
The cover was faded.
The edges of the pages had turned yellow with age.
"This belonged to my father."
Mubita accepted it carefully.
"It looks very old."
"It is."
"Nearly sixty years."
---
Mr. Sikalima gently ran his hand across the cover.
"My father started this ledger the year he bought the first ten hectares of this farm."
He smiled at the memory.
"He couldn't afford a proper office."
"So every evening he sat beneath the mango tree with this book on his lap."
"He wrote everything."
Mubita slowly opened the first page.
The handwriting was neat and elegant.
The first entry read:
'A farm is not measured by the cattle it owns, but by the honesty of the people who care for them.'
Mubita looked up.
"That's beautiful."
"My father believed that before a farmer grows crops..."
"He must first grow character."
---
They turned another page.
Each year had its own section.
There were records of rainfall.
Calving seasons.
Droughts.
Floods.
Diseases.
Profits.
Losses.
But between the farming records were handwritten lessons.
One entry read:
> 'Never employ a man because his hands are strong. Employ him because his heart is clean. Strong hands can steal. A clean heart protects what belongs to others.'
Mubita smiled quietly.
"That explains why you hired me."
Mr. Sikalima laughed.
"My father hired people the same way."
---
Another page described a devastating drought that had struck the district decades earlier.
Many farmers had sold their cattle.
Some had abandoned their land.
But Mr. Sikalima's father had written:
> 'When hard times come, never let hunger make you forget kindness. A neighbour who receives help today may become the one who saves your family tomorrow.'
Mr. Sikalima looked thoughtful.
"I watched my father give away bags of maize to families who had nothing."
"Weren't you struggling too?"
"We were."
"Didn't people tell him to stop?"
"Oh, they did."
"What did he say?"
Mr. Sikalima smiled.
"He said, 'God never made a poor man poorer because he shared his bread.'"
---
The two men continued reading late into the evening.
One page contained sketches of the first cattle kraal.
Another showed where each tree had been planted.
Even the great mango tree had its own entry.
'Today I planted a mango tree beside the house. I may never enjoy its fullest shade, but perhaps my children and grandchildren will.'
Mubita looked out through the office window toward the tree.
"So he really planted it himself."
"Yes."
"I was only five years old."
"I helped him carry water."
The old farmer smiled softly.
"I didn't understand then why he spent so much time caring for such a tiny tree."
He paused.
"Now I do."
---
Mr. Sikalima closed the ledger.
"I've shown this book to no one."
"Not even my own children."
Mubita looked surprised.
"Why me?"
The older man folded his hands.
"Because one day..."
"This farm will need someone who understands more than cattle."
"It will need someone who understands the values that built it."
Mubita was silent.
"I don't know if I'm worthy."
"No one is born worthy."
Mr. Sikalima smiled.
"We become worthy through the choices we make."
---
As Mubita left the office, he carried the old ledger carefully against his chest.
He felt as though he were carrying the history of an entire family.
Outside, beneath the mango tree, Hamusonde was sitting with Luyando.
The old man looked up and smiled.
"So..."
"You've seen the book."
Mubita stopped.
"You knew about it?"
Hamusonde chuckled.
"I helped your boss's father write some of those records."
"You did?"
"I couldn't write very well."
"But I remembered every calf that was born."
Everyone laughed.
Then Hamusonde became serious.
"That ledger contains numbers."
"But more importantly..."
"It contains wisdom."
"Protect both."
"I will."
---
Meanwhile, several kilometres away, Kelvin sat inside a roadside café with another man.
The stranger wore a brown jacket and kept his face hidden beneath a cap.
Kelvin placed a photograph on the table.
It showed Mubita standing beside Mr. Sikalima.
"This is the man."
The stranger studied the picture.
"He's loyal."
Kelvin nodded.
"Very."
"So what's the plan?"
Kelvin smiled coldly.
"If we can't buy his loyalty..."
He leaned forward.
"...we'll destroy the trust people have in him."
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance.
A new storm was gathering—one not of wind and rain, but of lies, deception, and betrayal.
And before long, the peace of the Sikalima Farm would be tested once again.