DIGITS OF THE HEART

📘Chapter 15: Maji na Maneno

It began with a conversation under the acacia tree, the kind of talk that starts as a joke and ends as a blueprint. Zawadi had been reading about community health initiatives in rural Kenya, and Harizon had been tinkering with a solar-powered water purifier for his final-year science project. She looked at the prototype, then at him, and said, “What if it could speak?”

Harizon blinked. “Speak?”

“Yeah. What if it didn’t just clean water, but told stories? Gave health tips? Played poetry?”

He stared at her, the idea blooming in his mind like jacaranda blossoms in October. “You mean tech meets storytelling?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Maji na Maneno. Water and Words.”

They spent the next few weeks sketching, coding, recording. Zawadi wrote scripts in Kiswahili and English—short poems, folk tales, hygiene tips, even riddles for kids. Harizon built the casing, refined the solar panel, and programmed the audio module to play at timed intervals. Arabella helped test the speaker, giggling every time Zawadi’s voice said, “Usafi ni uzima.”

They presented the prototype at a youth innovation expo in Nairobi. The crowd gathered quickly, drawn by the blend of function and soul. Judges leaned in. Children clustered around the demo unit, listening to Zawadi’s voice tell a story about a clever hare and a thirsty lion.

They won Best Community Impact Project.

Photos were taken. Interviews requested. A local NGO asked if they could pilot the device in schools across Kisii and Homabay. Zawadi was radiant. Harizon was quiet, proud, and overwhelmed.

That night, they sat on the rooftop of their guesthouse, watching the city lights flicker like stars.

“You know,” Zawadi said, “this could be something big.”

“It already is,” Harizon replied.

She turned to him. “I’m glad we did this together.”

He hesitated. “Me too.”

But something in his voice made her pause.

“What is it?”

He pulled out his phone. “I got an email.”

She waited.

“It’s a scholarship,” he said. “To study engineering in Canada. Full ride. Three years.”

Zawadi blinked. “Canada?”

He nodded. “Toronto. They saw my purifier project online. They want me to join their global innovation program.”

She looked away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the rooftop.

“That’s… incredible.”

“It is.”

“And far.”

“Very far.”

They sat in silence, the air between them suddenly heavy.

Zawadi spoke first. “When do you leave?”

“If I accept, in four months.”

She nodded slowly. “Three years is a long time.”

“I know.”

“People change.”

“I know.”

She turned to him, eyes searching. “Do you want to go?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I think I need to.”

She swallowed. “Then go. But don’t forget what we built.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t forget me.”

“I couldn’t.”

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t cry.

They just sat there, side by side, knowing that something beautiful had begun—and that it might have to survive without proximity.

Later that night, Zawadi recorded a new poem for the purifier:

“If you drink this water,

remember the hands that made it clean.

If you hear this voice,

remember the heart that gave it rhythm.”

She didn’t tell Harizon she wrote it for him.

She didn’t need to.