Forty years later, the land remembers.
Mulenga is now a man of sixty, his back bent from years of labor, his hands cracked and calloused. His farm is still far from the city—four days' journey by foot, longer by broken-down truck. He has five children, two of whom are now adults with children of their own. His eldest daughter, Nandi, lives in a village nearby, raising her two children alone. His son, Kebwe, works the fields with him, silent and hollow-eyed, his dreams buried beneath the weight of regret.
His wife, Thandiwe, died five years ago. She passed quietly in her sleep, her last words a whisper: "I still miss the mango tree."
Mulenga visits the Bandas' compound sometimes—not to beg, not to apologize, but to stand at the edge of the property and look at the land he once tended.
The mango tree is still there, taller now, its branches heavy with fruit. The garden is still lush. The cattle still graze.
But the house is empty.
Mr. Banda passed away two years ago. Mrs. Banda moved to the city to live with her daughter. The land is now managed by a distant cousin, who doesn't know Mulenga's name.
Sometimes, when the wind blows just right, Mulenga swears he can hear Thandiwe's laughter. He can smell the scent of her cooking. He can feel the warmth of her hand in his.
He kneels in the dirt, his face buried in his hands, and weeps.
Not for the land he lost.
But for the love he threw away.