STANLEY'S JOURNEY: THE POOL OF RIVALRY

Our family finds its home in the growing populace of Ankre Village. The village is not large enough for strangers to lose themselves, yet it continues to expand with every passing year. New compounds appear where empty land once rests. Children seem to multiply as quickly as the seasons change, and every household possesses a story carried from generations long gone. Life moves gently here. People rise with the first cry of the rooster. Smoke curls lazily above mud houses before sunrise. Women sweep their compounds while exchanging greetings that travel farther than the morning breeze. Children chase one another barefoot across dusty paths. Fowls wander confidently as though they own every footpath in the village. The village breathes together like one enormous family. Every compound stands enclosed within a rectangular fence. The fences are neither built from expensive materials nor fashioned by machines. They rise through patience, experience and the willing hands of men who understand that strength often begins with simple things. Straight sticks are carefully selected from the bush. Each stick is cut almost exactly the same size. The measurements rarely require rulers because experienced eyes perform the work more accurately than instruments ever could. The sticks are driven firmly into the earth, standing shoulder to shoulder until they form a perfect rectangle around the compound. However, the sticks alone do not become the fence. Palm fronds complete the work. Fresh palm fronds are harvested with remarkable care, and stripped. They cannot be used immediately. Nature itself demands patience. Their ribbons are not yet ready. Their leaves still carry too much moisture. Everything must happen at the proper time. My father often says that anything forced before its season eventually exposes its weakness. The freshly cut fronds therefore remain beneath the gentle sunlight for several days. Not beneath the scorching afternoon heat. Not hidden completely in the shade. Only beneath the mild morning and evening sun where drying occurs gradually. The fronds lie arranged according to their sizes. The longer ones occupy one end. The shorter ones rest at another. Nothing appears scattered. Nothing appears careless. Everything possesses order. Light wooden planks rest across them to prevent unnecessary bending. The weight is carefully judged. Too much pressure damages the fronds. Too little pressure allows them to curl. Balance governs every stage of the process. While the fronds continue drying, another task quietly begins. Their ribbons are stripped. The work requires patient fingers. One careless pull tears the ribbon. One hurried movement wastes an entire strip. Each ribbon is peeled gently from the fresh frond before it completely dries. Afterward each strip is trimmed neatly until its width remains almost identical from one end to the other. The ribbons are then coiled into tidy bundles and hanged at a convenient spot. They too wait. Everything waits. Nothing rushes. Several days later, once the fronds become properly dried, the ribbons undergo another transformation. They are soaked in water. Not because they are weak. Because flexibility creates strength. A dry ribbon snaps. A softened ribbon bends. A ribbon that bends willingly eventually ties the strongest knots. But even this process demands wisdom. The ribbons cannot remain submerged for too long. If they absorb excessive water, they begin to fray. Their strength quietly abandons them. Moderation protects usefulness. Watching my father perform these tasks always fascinates me. To another person, fencing appears to be ordinary labour. To me, it resembles quiet artistry. Every movement carries purpose. Every knot follows rhythm. Every decision reflects experience gathered through countless seasons. My father never wastes motion. He never argues with the materials. Instead, he works with them, allowing each stage to unfold naturally. Even as a young boy, I sense there is something larger hiding behind the work. The fence is not merely a fence. It carries lessons that stretch far beyond sticks, palm fronds and ribbons. Although I cannot yet explain those lessons, I feel them. Every time I accompany my father, another small piece of understanding settles silently inside me. And every time I think I finally understand everything, he performs one simple action that reminds me how much more remains to be learned. The more I watch my father, the more I become convinced that every meaningful work possesses a language of its own. The language is not spoken with the mouth. It is spoken with the hands, with patience, and with careful observation. A man who listens only with his ears understands very little. A man who watches carefully understands far more than words can ever explain. My father seldom wastes his breath on unnecessary explanations. He believes that the eyes learn before the tongue asks questions. Even when he speaks, his words are usually short, leaving my curious mind to wander through the remaining distance until I discover the answer for myself. Perhaps that is why I always enjoy following him. Whenever he prepares to fence a compound, I wake with excitement. It does not matter whether the work belongs to our family or to another household in the village. If my father goes, I go with him. There is hardly a place he visits without me trailing behind like a stubborn little shadow. Some people laugh whenever they see us together. "There goes Stanley again," they often say with cheerful amusement. "If you want to find the father, simply look for the son." Others laugh even louder. "No," another replies. "If you want to find the son, simply look for the father. They hardly separate." My father merely smiles. He never appears embarrassed by my constant company. Instead, he stretches out his hand, allowing me to walk beside him as though my presence naturally belongs there. Sometimes he places his rough palm upon my head. Sometimes he simply glances at me. Those silent gestures speak more loudly than many conversations. The path leading through Ankre Village always seems alive. Children chase goats that refuse to cooperate. Women balance heavy loads upon their heads with astonishing ease while continuing lively conversations that never seem to pause for breath. Old men gather beneath broad trees, discussing matters that appear capable of lasting the entire day. Young boys wrestle with one another until someone falls into the dust, after which both of them burst into laughter before beginning again. The village possesses its own rhythm. Nobody seems hurried. Nobody appears idle. Everyone is always doing something. Whenever my father arrives at a compound to begin fencing, the owner welcomes him with genuine respect. Not because fencing is mysterious. Not because no one else understands it. But because everyone knows that a poorly constructed fence soon becomes an expensive mistake. Domestic animals do not recognise property boundaries. A goat does not understand ownership. A sheep does not appreciate careful farming. Leave an opening where there should be none, and before long someone's hungry livestock discovers another person's flourishing crops. By sunset, friendship may begin turning into disagreement. By the following morning, disagreement may become quarrel. All because of one neglected section of fence. My father understands this very well. "A good fence," he once said while examining the alignment of several sticks, "prevents many arguments before they are born." I do not fully understand the weight of that statement. To me, a fence simply keeps goats inside. To my father, it also keeps peace inside the village. That thought settles quietly inside my young mind. Every stick he plants enters the ground with firm confidence. He presses each one until it refuses to lean. Then he walks several steps backward, folding both arms across his chest while carefully studying his own work. Sometimes he nods with satisfaction. Sometimes he removes a perfectly good stick simply because it stands slightly out of line. I stare at him in surprise. "Daddy," I ask, "it already stands." "It stands," he agrees calmly. "Then why remove it?" He smiles without looking at me. "Standing is not always enough." I blink. He pulls the stick completely from the ground before planting it again only a few inches away. "There," he says. I compare both positions. At first I notice nothing. Then gradually I realise the entire row now appears straighter. I cannot help smiling. He notices my expression. "You see it now." "Yes." "What changes?" "The whole fence looks better." He nods gently. "A small mistake sometimes affects everything around it." Those simple words remain inside me. Years later, I still remember them exactly as he spoke them. His lessons never resemble classroom teaching. He never gathers me beneath a tree to deliver long speeches. Instead, he teaches while living. Every ordinary activity carries an extraordinary lesson hidden inside it. The fencing itself continues steadily. One by one, the prepared palm fronds find their places against the upright sticks. Each frond overlaps the previous one just enough to leave no unnecessary opening. The work resembles weaving. Every movement depends upon the movement before it. If one section becomes careless, every section after it suffers. The softened ribbons now become useful. My father wraps one around the sticks with astonishing speed. His fingers move so quickly that I often lose track of the pattern. Around. Across. Behind. Through. Then suddenly the knot appears. Firm. Neat. Strong. Every tie looks almost identical to the one before it. I spend more time watching his hands than looking at his face. Sometimes I quietly imitate the movements in the air, hoping my fingers somehow remember what my eyes cannot fully understand. He notices. He always notices. "You are practising already?" I grin sheepishly. "I want to learn." "You will." "When?" "When your patience becomes greater than your excitement." I lower my eyes. He laughs softly. "There is no need to rush knowledge." I nod, although waiting feels like the hardest work in the world. The truth is simple. I admire my father. Everything he does appears remarkable to me. When he lifts heavy bundles, I wish I possess his strength. When he ties impossible knots, I wish my fingers move as swiftly. When villagers praise his workmanship, my own chest quietly fills with pride as though they are praising me instead. Sometimes I even stand a little taller without realising it. He never boasts. He never interrupts people to remind them of his ability. He simply works. Then he allows the finished work to speak for itself. Perhaps that is why so many people trust him. As for me, I hardly notice the passing hours. The bright morning gradually becomes afternoon. The sun climbs overhead before beginning its slow descent. Yet my curiosity never grows tired. Every completed section of fence only creates another question waiting patiently inside my mind. I know the questions will eventually escape. They always do. And my father, as always, will answer them in the peculiar way only he understands. Not by giving me the answer immediately. But by leading me patiently until I discover that the answer has been waiting before my eyes all along.