Five years passed like a blessing.
Mulenga rose before dawn each day, moving through the compound with the quiet purpose of a man who had found his calling. The cattle thrived under his care—he knew each one by name, understood their temperaments, learned to read the subtle signs of illness or distress. The crops grew abundant. The Bandas' generosity seemed to multiply with every season.
Two more children were born—a girl and then a boy. The house that had felt cramped now felt full of life. Thandiwe's laughter echoed through the compound as she worked in the garden, her hands deep in the earth, coaxing life from the soil just as she had coaxed hope back into her husband's heart.
The Bandas visited regularly, and there was genuine warmth between the families. Mrs. Banda would sit with Thandiwe, sharing recipes and stories. Mr. Banda would walk the fields with Mulenga, discussing crop rotation and cattle breeding with the respect of one professional to another.
"You have a gift for this," Mr. Banda told him one afternoon, watching as Mulenga expertly treated a calf's infected hoof. "You were meant for this land."
Mulenga felt something shift in his chest—a settling, a sense of belonging that he had never known before. This was more than employment. This was home.
But in the evenings, when the work was done and the children were asleep, Mulenga would stand at the edge of the property and look toward the horizon. He would watch other men pass by on their way to town, men with money in their pockets and ambition in their eyes. And something dark would whisper to him: This is not yours. You are still a caretaker. You will always be a caretaker.