The rainy season had arrived.
Dark clouds rolled across the skies above Siampondo almost every afternoon, bringing heavy showers that transformed the dry plains into carpets of green. The streams filled once more, frogs croaked throughout the night, and the cattle grew fat from the fresh pasture.
For the farm, it was a season of abundance.
For Mubita and Chipo, however, it marked the beginning of a season of growing tension.
Although Mubita had promised to spend more time with his family after their conversation beneath the mango tree, reality proved more difficult than he had expected.
The rains brought new responsibilities.
Calves were being born almost every week.
The grazing fields had to be rotated carefully to prevent overgrazing.
Several sections of fencing had been damaged by storms.
Mr. Sikalima had also begun planning an expansion of the farm, purchasing another twenty head of cattle from a neighbouring district.
The work seemed endless.
---
One Monday morning, before sunrise, Mubita quietly dressed for work.
As he reached for his hat, Chipo stirred awake.
"So early again?" she asked sleepily.
"The cows near the eastern paddock are due to calve."
"You said that yesterday."
"I know."
"And the day before."
Mubita sighed.
"I'm sorry."
She sat up on the bed.
"You've apologized many times."
He looked at her with tired eyes.
"I wish I could change things."
"So do I."
Neither spoke for several moments.
Finally, Mubita picked up his walking stick.
"I'll be back before dark."
Chipo forced a smile.
"I'll be waiting."
As the door closed behind him, she remained sitting on the bed, staring at the empty doorway.
---
Later that morning, Mrs. Bwalya found Chipo hanging laundry behind the house.
"You seem troubled."
Chipo smiled faintly.
"I'm all right."
Mrs. Bwalya raised an eyebrow.
"You've used those words before."
This time, Chipo laughed softly.
"I suppose I have."
Mrs. Bwalya helped her hang another blanket.
"Marriage has seasons."
"What do you mean?"
"There are seasons of joy."
"Seasons of struggle."
"Seasons when love feels effortless."
"And seasons when love becomes a choice."
Chipo looked thoughtful.
"Which season am I in?"
Mrs. Bwalya smiled gently.
"The season where patience matters most."
---
That afternoon, Mubita returned home much later than expected.
His clothes were soaked from the rain.
Mud covered his boots.
He looked exhausted.
Chipo placed a plate of hot nshima before him without saying a word.
As he ate, silence filled the small house.
Finally, he spoke.
"How was your day?"
"It was fine."
"What did you do?"
"I cleaned."
"I washed clothes."
"I prepared food."
"I looked after Luyando."
She paused.
"The usual."
Mubita nodded.
"I'm sorry I was late."
"The rain delayed us."
She looked at him.
"It always seems to be something."
He stopped eating.
"What do you mean?"
"There is always another fence."
"Another sick animal."
"Another excuse."
He frowned.
"They aren't excuses."
"They're responsibilities."
"And what about us?"
Her voice remained calm, but the hurt behind it was unmistakable.
"Are we no longer your responsibility?"
Mubita laid down his spoon.
"Of course you are."
"Then why do I feel like I come after the cattle?"
The words hung heavily in the room.
Little Luyando looked back and forth between his parents, sensing something was wrong.
"Papa..."
Mubita smiled gently at his son.
"It's all right."
But it wasn't.
---
That evening, after Luyando had fallen asleep, the conversation continued outside beneath the mango tree.
The rain had stopped, leaving the air cool and fresh.
"I never wanted this," Mubita said quietly.
"Neither did I."
"I work because I love you."
"I know."
"Then why are we arguing?"
Chipo looked toward the distant cattle kraal.
"Because love isn't only measured by sacrifice."
He remained silent.
She continued softly.
"I know you want to provide for us."
"I appreciate every long day you work."
"But sometimes..."
She struggled to find the right words.
"I feel like you've become the farm's husband."
"And only occasionally mine."
Those words hurt.
Not because they were cruel.
But because they contained truth.
Mubita lowered his head.
"I don't know how to balance everything."
"You don't have to do it alone."
He looked up.
"What do you mean?"
"Talk to Mr. Sikalima."
"Tell him."
"Perhaps someone else can help with the workload."
Mubita shook his head immediately.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"He trusted me."
"And asking for help doesn't mean you've betrayed that trust."
He didn't answer.
Pride wrestled with wisdom inside him.
---
The following morning, Mr. Sikalima noticed something unusual.
Normally, Mubita greeted him with his usual cheerful smile.
Today, he seemed distracted.
"Is everything all right?"
"Yes, sir."
The farmer studied him carefully.
Years of working with people had taught him that the first answer was not always the honest one.
He waited.
Finally, Mubita sighed.
"My wife and I argued."
Mr. Sikalima nodded slowly.
"I see."
"She says I spend too much time working."
"And do you?"
Mubita looked across the grazing fields.
"I suppose I do."
The farmer smiled kindly.
"My father used to tell me something."
"What was it?"
> 'A fire that cooks your food can also burn your house if left unattended.'
Mubita listened carefully.
"Work is a blessing."
"But if it consumes every part of your life..."
He paused.
"It becomes something else."
The younger man nodded silently.
"I understand."
"Go home early today."
"But the cattle—"
"The cattle will survive one evening without perfection."
Mubita smiled for the first time that morning.
"Thank you, sir."
As he walked away, Mr. Sikalima watched him thoughtfully.
He had spent decades raising cattle.
He knew that wounded animals healed with medicine.
Broken fences could be repaired with timber.
But wounded marriages required something far more precious.
Time.
And time, once neglected, was often the hardest thing to recover.