Chapter Three: The Whisper Beneath the Mango Tree
The sun rose, but its light felt dimmer than usual. Even the village roosters crowed half-heartedly, as if they too had heard the news that Muthoka was to be replaced. It had spread like fire on dry thatch: the missionaries, pale and sharp-tongued, had voted against Muthoka's leadership.
Mama Kasevi banged pots in her kitchen with the anger of a prophetess denied a vision. "Ati they want to bring a child from England to lead us? Let him first learn how to climb a mango tree without tearing his trousers!" she snapped. Kamami nodded beside her, slicing sukuma wiki with the vengeance of a wronged queen.
Old Mutuku, once Muthoka's greatest critic, now puffed angrily on his pipe. "These wazungu...they come here, eat our food, and now think they own our pulpits?" He paused, squinting toward the church steeple in the distance. "Over my dead cow."
But inside the walls of the mission church, things were changing.
Pastor Tobias, the freshly imported young man with gelled blond hair and a suspiciously clean Bible, had begun implementing his reforms. No more Swahili songs—too local. No more testimonies unless pre-approved. And certainly no more elders sitting in front unless they could speak English fluently.
"Efficiency," he had called it, standing before the congregation with a toothy smile. "Order brings blessings."
But the blessings were hard to see.
Half the seats were empty by Wednesday. Mama Ndunge said she'd rather pray under her avocado tree than listen to a man who looked like a cabbage and smelled like shoe polish. Even the choir, once vibrant and full of spirit, had grown quiet.
Muthoka watched it all in silence. He still preached, still prayed. But the pulpit felt colder. The walls listened like strangers.
Then the dreams returned.
He found himself by the river—the one that curved near the village like a question mark. But it no longer flowed toward the sea. It moved backward, uphill, defying gravity, dragging leaves and forgotten things upstream. The sky above the river spun like a whirlpool. And just before he woke, a single voice echoed from the river's bend:
"Do not give them your sheep."
He would wake sweating, breath caught in his throat, unsure if it was God or madness. But the dream returned the next night. And the next.
One afternoon, after yet another tense meeting where Tobias declared, "Sunday's service will be streamed internationally," Muthoka slipped away.
He walked to the mango tree.
It still stood, slightly tilted, its bark gnarled from children's climbing feet. It was here he had once preached his first sermon, years ago, barefoot and trembling, to three goats and an old woman shelling peas. Now, the tree whispered again.
A breeze rustled its leaves, though the air was still. Then came the voice.
"They smile with white teeth, but their tongues carry poison."
Muthoka turned sharply.
No one.
But he could feel it—the weight of something ancient and watching.
He sat beneath the tree, his fingers digging into the dry earth. "Lord," he whispered, "was this all a mistake? Did I climb into a pulpit meant for someone else?"
No answer. Only the wind.
In the village, Mbula knelt beside her bed. Her prayers had grown longer, quieter. She dared not speak in public—her mother Kamene had warned her to stay out of "men's matters." But when she saw Muthoka's eyes on Sunday—dimmed like a candle choking in smoke—she began to pray with urgency.
"Father, restore your servant. Let the voice he once heard return to him."
Back in the church, Tobias continued his reforms.
The cross was polished.
The drums were replaced with a keyboard.
And then came the final blow.
"This week," he announced on Friday morning, his accent thick as vinegar, "all services will be in English only."
The silence was immediate.
Mama Kasevi's lips tightened. Mutuku grunted. A child dropped their toy.
Muthoka said nothing.
That night, he entered the church alone. The pews echoed. The altar stood untouched.
He walked forward slowly, past the empty rows where elders once clapped and wept.
He reached the altar, knelt, and placed his hand on it.
"I will not let them take this house," he whispered.
A pause.
Then a voice behind him:
"They've already begun."
He turned quickly.
No one.
But the door creaked open slowly.
And the river, miles away, surged in his ears.
[To Be Continued...]