One day, a young man from the city came to the village. He was not Ny—too young, too clean-shaven, carrying a leather satchel. The children followed him, fascinated by his shiny shoes. He stopped at the baobab and looked at Kwame.
He simply nodded.
The truth was simpler and heavier. Kwame was waiting for Ny . bole ny
Kofi unwrapped the object. It was a rusted identification tag, the kind soldiers wore on a chain around their neck. On it, scratched but still legible, was a name: Nyamekye Mensah . Ny.
Kwame nodded slowly. His eyes were pale with age, but sharp. One day, a young man from the city came to the village
Then he stood up, for the first time in thirty years, and walked away from the fork. The children watched in stunned silence. Kofi sat alone under the tree, unsure what to say.
Kwame walked to the river where he and Ny had once caught tilapia with their bare hands. He knelt at the bank and washed the rust from the tag until it gleamed faintly in the afternoon light. Then he went home, hung the tag on a nail above his sleeping mat, and cooked a small meal of boiled plantains and groundnut soup. He set two bowls on the floor. He stopped at the baobab and looked at Kwame
The young man sat down in the dust. He opened his satchel and pulled out a small, flat object wrapped in cloth. “My name is Kofi,” he said. “I am a social worker. I have been tracing family histories for a documentary about the war.”