STANLEY'S JOURNEY: THE POOL OF RIVALRY

The Second Layer: The Seal Upon the Soul.

"Daddy," I call, my curiosity refusing to rest. "Why do you tie the fronds against the sticks with two layers when one layer can already hold them together."

He continues working. The ribbon passes between his fingers with effortless precision—around the stick, behind the frond, across again. He pulls it tight, tests it with a gentle shake, and only then glances at me.

A smile spreads across his face.

"Stanley," he says quietly, "tell me something first."

I listen.

"Why do two men carry a long pole from opposite ends, when one strong man can lift it alone?"

I think about strength.

"To make the work easier," I reply.

He nods silently.

I continue thinking. "And... so the pole does not drag on the ground."

His smile widens.

He fastens a single row of ribbons around one section of the fence and gently shakes the structure. The fence remains standing, but it trembles.

"Do you see?"

"Yes."

"What do you see?"

"It stands."

"It stands. But watch closely."

He shakes it again with a little more force. The sticks sway together before settling.

"It stands," he says, "but does not settle."

Then he threads another ribbon above the first, forming the second layer. His fingers move with the confidence of a man repeating a lesson he has learned a thousand times. When he finishes, he pushes the fence with both hands.

This time, the movement differs. The fence barely responds. It seems to gather strength from within itself.

"Now, what do you see?"

I step closer. "It hardly moves."

He nods with satisfaction. "One layer makes a fence stand. Two layers help it remain standing."

I remain silent.

He pats the fence gently. "The wind doesn't ask whether a fence is ready before blowing. Goats don't ask permission before leaning against it. Children don't stop running because a fence is weak."

I smile, and he laughs softly.

"So... the second layer is for the wind?"

"For the wind," he replies, "for the goats, for careless children... and for every trouble that arrives without warning."

His words settle quietly inside me.

I fix my eyes upon the fence, but my thoughts wander beyond the palm fronds and ribbons before me. One layer makes a fence stand. Two layers help it remain standing. The words echo in my mind with a weight far greater than I expect. I know he speaks about fencing, yet I sense something deeper that I cannot yet put into words.

Father never rushes me. He returns to his work as though the lesson is already complete, his fingers moving steadily from stick to stick, tightening each knot with calm confidence.

"Daddy."

"Hmm?"

"Did someone teach you all these things?"

He chuckles softly. "Of course."

"Who?"

"My father."

I smile. "So Grandpa tied fences too?"

"He did."

"And he also asked questions instead of giving answers?"

He laughs heartily this time. "More than I do."

I shake my head.

I cannot imagine anyone asking more questions than him. Sometimes I feel that every answer I seek merely gives birth to another question.

"Then were you also confused?"

He nods without hesitation. "Many times."

I burst into laughter. "You?"

"Yes, me."

I continue laughing, almost forgetting that he is speaking seriously. It is strangely comforting to know that my father was once a little boy like me. Somehow, I always imagine him as an old man from the very beginning of the world.

"You laugh," he says with a smile, "but every father is first a son."

I bend down and pick up one of the soaked ribbons lying beside us. It feels cool against my palm as I stretch it gently. It bends without breaking. I stretch it a little farther, and my father notices immediately.

"Not too much."

"Sorry," I quickly release it.

"There is nothing to be sorry for." He reaches out his hand. "Give it to me."

He rolls the ribbon gently between his fingers before handing it back. "Feel it now."

I do. It feels almost alive.

"It bends," I say.

"Yes."

"But it is still strong."

He nods. "That is exactly how it should be. A thing that refuses to bend often breaks."

I stare at the ribbon again. Only moments ago, it was merely part of a palm frond. Now it appears to carry another lesson. Everything around my father seems capable of teaching: the sticks, the ribbons, the fence—even silence. Perhaps that is why I enjoy following him wherever he goes. Every journey with him leaves me richer than before, although my pockets remain completely empty.

He finishes another knot and wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. The afternoon sun grows warmer, gathering tiny beads of sweat upon his face. Without thinking, I quickly pick up the small calabash containing water and carry it toward him.

He accepts it with a grateful smile.

He drinks slowly before returning the calabash to me.

Holding it carefully, I feel unusually proud. The task is small, yet it makes me feel useful.

"You enjoy helping me," my father observes.

"I do."

"Why?"

I smile sheepishly. "I just like being with you."

His face softens. "So do I."

The answer comes naturally, without hesitation or unnecessary explanation. My heart feels strangely light. Perhaps every child desires nothing more than to know he is wanted.

We continue working. This time, my father allows me to hold each palm frond firmly against the upright sticks while he ties them into place.

"Hold it straight."

I adjust my grip. "Like this?"

"A little higher."

I raise it. "There."

I remain perfectly still. My arms begin to ache, but I refuse to complain. If I move, the frond may slip, and my father may need to begin again. I clench my teeth and hold on.

After tying the ribbon, he gently taps my shoulder. "You can rest."

I lower my hands with obvious relief, making him laugh.

"You nearly stopped breathing."

"I don't want to spoil your work."

"You will not spoil it."

"What if I do?"

He shakes his head. "Then we correct it."

I look at him curiously. "You are never angry?"

"Oh, I become angry."

"When?"

"When someone refuses to learn."

I think about his answer. "So mistakes do not make you angry?"

"Mistakes show that someone is trying."

"What makes you angry then?"

"When someone keeps the mistake because pride refuses correction."

The words sink deeply into my heart. He gently ruffles my hair.

"Do not fear mistakes, Stanley. Fear the refusal to improve."

For a while, neither of us speaks. Only the quiet sounds of work remain between us. The ribbons tighten, the palm fronds overlap, and the fence slowly stretches around the compound like a protective embrace.

As each section is completed, I notice something I have never paid attention to before: every knot looks exactly like the previous one. Not one is hurried or carelessly tied, and the spaces between them remain almost equal.

"Daddy, how do you make every knot look the same?"

He smiles. "I tie one knot."

I frown. "I know."

"Then I tie the next one as though it is the first."

"And after that?"

"I tie another one the same way."

His answer sounds almost too simple, yet I realize that excellence is perhaps nothing more than doing ordinary things carefully, over and over again. What looks effortless in his hands is the result of countless careful repetitions. Standing beside him, I quietly hope that one day my own hands will move with the same certainty.

As the afternoon advances, the compound assumes the dignity of a completed work. A fence gives shape to a compound and order to the lives within it, quietly announcing that someone cares enough to protect what belongs to him.

My father steps backward, studying the fence the way a sculptor studies his finished work, searching for the slightest imperfection. After a long silence, he nods—the closest thing to praise he ever gives himself—and returns to finish the final portion. He never competes with another man, only with the quality of his previous work.

"Daddy, will I be able to tie like you one day?"

He nods.

"When your eyes begin tying before your hands do."

I wrinkle my face. "My eyes cannot tie ribbons."

He laughs softly, pointing toward a finished knot. "Before my hands move, my eyes already know where every ribbon is going."

"You see with your hands."

He smiles. "No, I work with my hands because I first see with my mind."

I fall silent again. His words refuse to leave me long after he spoke them.

Then he studies me. "That will be enough for today."

Together, we vacate the vicinity.

The next morning, I wake before Father.

The compound still slumbers beneath a mantle of darkness. Quietly, I make my way toward his room and tap the door.

"Daddy, it is morning."

The door opens slowly, revealing my father rubbing his eyes, looking less like the indefatigable farmer and more like an ordinary man who wishes to sleep a little longer.

"So," he says, yawning deeply, "it appears someone has begun treasuring farm work more than I do."

I straighten with pride. "You told me that a strong man embraces his duty instead of running from it."

He nods thoughtfully. Then his expression turns calm and serious. "Did you pray?"

My cheerful countenance falls. "I became excited about waking before you, then rushed here without thinking."

He studies me.

"Excitement is delightful," he says softly, "but when it blackmails sound judgment, it becomes poison. A man who does not pray to the gods and the spirits of his ancestors is like an unfenced compound. It becomes vulnerable to invaders, discipline withers, and everything descends into disorder. Prayer is the seal one places upon the soul."

I ponder his words as he continues. "When we sleep, we expose ourselves to the unknown world. Prayer is how we commune with the gods."

"How does the living share life with the gods who dwell in the world unknown?" I ask.

He chuckles. "I asked my father the same question."

"You did?"

"Yes. Real men do not conceal their curiosity; a closed mouth is a closed destiny."

I laugh freely. "You always have a way of making me feel important and guilty at the same time."

"Because you are my son—and my pupil." He asks, "Which do you enjoy more: being the master or the pupil?"

"The pupil," I answer. "I enjoy the lessons."

He nods. "A great listener today is often a great speaker tomorrow."

He reaches for a kola nut, asking, "Stanley, which is better—to give a child a fish, or to teach a child to catch fish?"

"To teach him to catch fish."

"Why?"

I think. "Because that way, he can always feed himself."

He nods with a smile.

"Daddy. Why do you answer questions with question?"

"When a master compels the pupil to discover the answer for himself," he says, "the truth takes root and grows with him."

He splits the kola nut with a small knife, offering a piece to the gods before handing one to me. The bitterness floods my mouth, making me wince.

He notices.

"Life is bitter too," he remarks solemnly, "but we must live it nonetheless."

I grin.

"Daddy. But no one remains a master forever." I say returning to the previous topic.

He turns to me with a genuine smile. "True. But neither does a good pupil ever cease to learn."

As he reaches for his hoe, I notice his cap resting on the wooden bench.

"Daddy, you are leaving this behind."

He studies me for a moment.

"And I'm leaving you behind too?"

At once, I quickly gather his water gourd, his machete, and the small woven basket containing our roasted yam.

Then he nods with quiet satisfaction.

"Now," he says, "we are ready."