The Boy Who Listened

 

In a small village not far from Greytown, a boy named Thabo lived with his mother. His father, a teacher, had been taken away in the dark days when voices of truth were silenced. At night, his mother lit a single candle and sang old lullabies, her voice trembling like the flame.

Thabo carried questions that no one dared answer: Where had his father gone? Why were the people so angry? Why did soldiers come to the village and speak as if the land was not theirs?

One evening, when the moon floated fat and golden over the hills, Thabo wandered to the Tugela’s edge. The water glimmered strangely, as though stars had sunk into it. He leaned closer, and the ripples changed.

Instead of his reflection, he saw visions — Zulu warriors chanting before battle, their assegais raised; miners marching underground, singing in unison to keep their spirits alive; women marching in Pretoria, holding signs and babies on their hips; and finally, a tall man walking out of prison with his fist raised high.

Thabo stumbled back, heart hammering. The water stilled. Only the heron remained — tall, white, and waiting.