Woven mats were spread out under the old mango tree at the centre of the Bahamba family compound. One by one, relatives arrived and greeted one another with handshakes before taking their places. The inner circle of mats was for the elders, uncles, and brothers. The wooden stools in the middle were for the speakers. The crowd stirred as the Abagingi, the family’s senior elders, entered the compound. Their carved walking sticks touched the ground with each slow step. They took their places under the tree, followed by other senior family members and relatives.
Dada sat with her children on a mat near the inner circle. Beside her sat Mugisho, her eldest son. His younger brothers and sisters stayed close by. The younger brothers of Dada’s late husband sat across from her. Aunts and cousins gathered just outside the circle, while neighbours stood at a distance. When everyone was seated, the eldest elder slowly rose to his feet. The conversations stopped.
“Our days of mourning are almost over,” the elder said. “Before they end, there is one matter we must settle.” He looked at Dada. “Our brother has passed away, but his loved ones must not be left alone. According to our family’s customs, tell us which of your husband’s younger brothers you trust to stand beside you and help care for this household.”
Dada looked down without saying anything. Then she looked at each of her brothers-in-law one by one. Some of them looked at her, others didn’t. Finally, she looked at the youngest. “I choose Zagabe.” Everyone listened intently. “My husband trusted him,” she said. “I trust him too. He has always been kind to my children and me. I believe he will continue to care for us.”
Zagabe exchanged a look with the eldest elder. He got up slowly. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said. He looked at Dada, then at the children. “My brother is irreplaceable. But I will stand beside his family. I will respect my sister-in-law, help raise these children, and do whatever I can whenever they need me.”
One elder nodded. “Remember your promise,” he said. “You are not replacing your brother. You are helping to protect what he left behind.” Uncle Ruzibuka leaned on his walking stick. “A family leans on many shoulders,” he said. “Carry yours well.”
Zigashane, a gray-haired aunt, smiled at Zagabe. “Those children will learn more from what you do than from what you say,” she said. “Set a good example for them.” Zagabe lowered his head. “I understand.” The eldest elder turned to Dada. “Do you accept his promise before this family?” “I do.” He looked around the circle. “Then let everyone here bear witness. From today on, the Bahamba family will continue to stand with this household.” Their voices murmured in agreement.
Dada’s youngest daughter took a step back from her mom and went over to Zagabe. He knelt, smiled, and took her hand. The eldest elder raised both hands. “Let us pray.” Heads bowed. “May God give this family strength. May He protect these children, guide those who care for them, and keep this household united.”
“Amen,” everyone said as the family meeting ended. Some of the younger men folded up the woven mats. Others carried the stools back to the veranda. Meanwhile, the elders were still chatting under the mango tree, preparing for the ceremony the next morning.
As evening fell, more neighbours arrived to spend the night with the grieving family. Inside the compound, cooking fires glowed as families shared an evening meal. The air smelt of roasted tilapia and fresh ugali. Older women served the food while the children stayed close together, whispering as they watched the adults. It wasn’t long before the light faded and crickets were singing in the grass. The Bahamba family gathered inside the house. The last day of mourning would begin at sunrise.
The roosters’ calls woke everyone in the village. Mist still lay over the fields as the family members returned to the compound. Fresh mats covered the ground under a large tent. The smoke from the last cooking fires of the previous day hung in the air. People greeted each other before taking their places. The Abagingi were responsible for guiding the ceremony today.
Two of the Abagingi went towards Mugisho. Without saying a word, they guided him to a wooden chair opposite the senior family elders. His younger brothers and sisters stood beside their mother. Dada watched her eldest son with her hands folded. When everyone was seated, the senior Abagingi elder stood up. “Our days of mourning have ended,” he said. “Today, we’re here to pass your father’s responsibilities onto the next person in the family.”
Another Abagingi stepped forward, carrying a spear. He stood before Mugisho. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the elder held out the spear. “Your father was the head of his household. Today, we give you this weapon. We don’t want you to use it in battle, but rather to remember the responsibility you now have.” He held the spear up and pointed it toward the ground. Seated, Mugisho grabbed the spear with both hands. He lowered his head as a sign of respect. The older man put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Take care of your mother.” He looked at the younger children. “Stand beside your brothers and sisters.” He looked back at Mugisho. “Keep this family together.”
Another elder stepped forward. “Your dad earned our respect through the way he lived,” he said. “Do the same.” A quiet uncle cleared his throat. “You’re going to mess up,” he said. “We all have.” Mugisho nodded. “With God’s help,” he said, “I’ll take care of my mom, support my brothers and sisters, and make my dad proud when I get older.”
The elders raised their hands. “May God give you wisdom. May He strengthen this family. May He keep the Bahamba household united.” Dada wanted to say something, but she couldn’t. Women must not speak when men are talking. Mugisho’s younger sister sat next to their mother, holding her hands. Their relatives were smiling around them. The eldest elder lifted his stick. “The family has spoken. The ceremony is done.”
Later that afternoon, the elders gathered in a small house in the family compound. Away from the noise outside, they shared a meal of ugali and roasted meat. One of the younger family members placed a clay pot of traditional beer on the table. The eldest elder lifted a wooden cup. “May this family stay united.” The others nodded. Outside, younger relatives gave everyone water, soft drinks and biscuits before they left. By the time they finished, the tables were almost empty.
Some villagers arrived late and looked around. “We are sorry. We came too late,” one of them said. A relative pointed at the empty plates. “Unfortunately, the snacks have all been eaten.” An old man looked at the empty table and smiled. “Good,” he said. “That means you came at the right time. The real food is ready.” The villagers laughed. They stayed outside with the other villagers, where food and beer were being served.
As the afternoon turned into evening, the compound started to empty out. Mugisho stayed outside his dad’s house. He held the family spear firmly in his hands. His mom, brothers, and sisters joined him. They walked inside together. That evening, after the
visitors had gone home, Zagabe went back to his room. He sat quietly for a while, thinking about the promise he’d made to his family.
Before the sun came up the next morning, Zagabe put his fishing nets over his shoulder and walked to Lake Tanganyika. The village was still asleep. The only sounds were his footsteps and some birds in the distance. The lake was calm. Every time he paddled, the water rippled a little. As the sun came up over the hills, he cast his nets and waited. By mid-morning, he was in the family fields. The smell of freshly turned earth filled the air as people dug into the soil. Mugisho and his younger brothers worked alongside him. “Keep the rows straight,” Zagabe said. The boys adjusted their lines and kept going.
That evening, the family gathered for dinner. Dada set three plates in front of Zagabe. The children shared their own three plates, while Dada left her portion in the cooking pots to eat later. Before eating, Zagabe picked the biggest piece of fish from his plate and placed it on the children’s plate. “You should keep that for yourself,” Dada said. Zagabe smiled. “I’m all right.” Dada didn’t say anything more.
The seasons passed. The children grew taller and the family continued to harvest good crops. The fishing nets became worn from years of use. Whenever one tore, Zagabe mended it instead of throwing it away.
One cool morning, Zagabe and Mugisho stood by the shore of Lake Tanganyika. A thin mist lay over the water, hiding the hills on the opposite shore. Small waves rolled onto the sand and slipped back into the lake. Zagabe held out a folded fishing net. “Throw it,” he said. Mugisho grabbed the net tightly and swung it as hard as he could. It looked like it was going to open properly, but then one side caught on itself. The net twisted in the air before falling into the water, tangled up. A small fish jumped out of the water next to it and quickly disappeared.
Mugisho looked at the tangled net. He breathed out quietly and lowered his head. Zagabe smiled. He walked into the shallow water, picked up the net, and slowly worked the knots loose with his hands. “When I first learned to fish,” he said, “my father had to untangle my net almost every morning.”
Mugisho looked at him. “I thought you always knew how.” Zagabe laughed. “No, I had to learn, just like you.” After the last knot was undone, Zagabe folded the net carefully. Then he threw it into the water. The net opened up into a wide circle before settling gently on the lake. He took hold of it and gave it to Mugisho. “Don’t try to force it,” he said. “Let the net open by itself.”
Mugisho nodded. He breathed in deeply, adjusted his hands, and threw the net again. This time, it opened much wider, spreading well across the water. Zagabe nodded. “Better.” The two of them stood quietly for a moment, watching the ripples move across the lake. Mugisho pulled the net back, folded it the way Zagabe had shown him, and got ready to throw it again without being asked. Zagabe looked at him and smiled.
Years went by. Whenever the Bahamba family gathered under the old mango tree to settle a problem, Mugisho was there. At first, he sat quietly and listened. Later, the elders began turning toward him when they wanted his opinion. Zagabe noticed. After one meeting, the two men walked home together under the fading light. “I still look at you before I answer,” Mugisho said with a smile. Zagabe laughed. “One day you won’t need to.”
The children who used to follow Zagabe and Mugisho through the fields were now young adults. Some of them had married and started their own families. The years also brought new children into the household. Dada and Zagabe had two sons together, Zagason and Kongwa. According to the Bahamba family tradition, the boys belonged to Zagabe’s late brother’s family, just like the older children. Zagabe never treated them differently. He worked hard to provide for them, cared for them, and loved them just as he loved every child in the family.
One morning on the lake, Zagabe pulled hard on a heavy net. He stopped to catch his breath. He held the net a bit more tightly after a second and put it in the canoe. He didn’t tell anyone. As time went on, even small things took longer than they used to. The younger men noticed this. Zagabe just smiled and kept working.
One afternoon, the family harvested some corn. Zagabe bent down to pick up a basket full of the stuff. He pulled. The basket didn’t move. He shifted his feet and gave it another try. It barely moved. He took a moment to rest his hands on the basket and catch his breath. Mugisho walked over. “I’ll take it.” Zagabe looked at him, then just stepped aside. Mugisho picked up the basket and put it on his shoulder. Zagabe picked up his hoe. The younger kids went on ahead, chatting about the day’s catch, while the two men trailed behind. They walked side by side without saying anything.
That evening, Dada found Zagabe sitting under the old mango tree. His meal was still sitting there next to him. “You haven’t eaten much.” He gave a little smile. “I’m just tired.” She looked at him for a second, then sat down next to him. Night fell over the compound. Crickets filled the air with their steady song.
Not long after, Zagabe couldn’t even get out of bed. The word spread through the village. Relatives came during the day. Some prayed quietly. Others just sat with him. That afternoon, Mugisho came into the room. He pulled up a stool next to the bed. They sat in silence for a bit. Zagabe turned toward him. “Do you remember that promise I made to your dad?” “I remember.” Zagabe reached for his hand. His grip was getting weaker. “Keep this family together.” Tears fell from Mugisho’s eyes as he held Zagabe’s hand tightly. “I will.” Tears fell from Zagabe’s eyes. He closed his eyes. Everyone in the room went quiet.
A few days later, the Bahamba family got together under the old mango tree again. The same tree had seen Dada make a choice many years before. Now it shaded Zagabe’s farewell. His coffin was put in front of the family. The eldest elder got up slowly. He leaned on his walking stick before speaking. “A long time ago, Zagabe took on a responsibility that totally changed his life. He stuck with it until the very end.”
Another elder spoke up from his seat. “Whenever this family needed him, Zagabe was there.” Uncle Ruzibuka stood silently among the family, both hands resting on his walking stick. He lowered his head. An elderly woman nodded her head in agreement. Zigashane wiped away her tears and nodded quietly. “He never looked for praise,” she said. “He simply did what needed to be done.”
Everyone was quiet. The eldest elder continued, “Following our family tradition, the children born into this household stayed in the lineage of Zagabe’s older brother. Zagabe decided to help out his brother instead of starting his own family.” No one said a word. Mugisho took a step forward. He put one hand on the coffin. “You gave us your strength.” He paused. “You taught us to work.” Another pause. “You kept this family together.” His voice got all weak. “Thank you.” He lowered his head. His relatives wiped away their tears.
As the sun went down, the people at the funeral slowly left. Mugisho stayed behind. He went into the family house by himself. His spear was resting against the wall. He picked it up and hung it back where it usually went. Then he picked up Zagabe’s old fishing net. Its ropes were worn from years of use. He put it next to the spear.
A moment later, Zagason walked into the room. “Our mother told me that Zagabe was my biological father,” he said. Mugisho looked at him but didn’t say anything. “If Zagabe was my father,” asked Zagason, “why did I call him ‘Uncle’? Some people say he died without having any children of his own, but others say I’m his son.”
Mugisho closed his eyes for a moment, then pulled a wooden stool closer. “Come and sit next to me.” Zagason sat down without taking his eyes off Mugisho. The evening air blew through the doorway. Above them, the spear and the old fishing net hung next to each other.
