Tomorrow, Son, Tomorrow

Dad would say it with that teasing smile of his, a promise wrapped in patience. But tomorrow always felt so far away, an unreachable horizon that never seemed to arrive yet until today. For years, I had burned with a child's eager fire, desperate to prove myself, to grasp the reins of the plow, to step into the world of men. At five, I had begged him. At ten, I had pleaded. At fifteen, I had demanded.

But always, he would ruffle my hair and chuckle. “Tomorrow, son.” But his tomorrow, the promise I waited to be the next day has taken me years. Dad’s tomorrow was different from mine. I had to wait for years. And then, one morning, just as the sky stretched its gray arms over the land, Dad called me over. That moment ignited me with awe. He said, “Today, son you can plow for yourself. It is your special day.”

My breath caught. My heart pounded like the hooves of running cattle. I told myself, Dad’s tomorrow has arrived. His calendar of my maturity has arrived at last. I sprinted to the barn, my fingers trembling as I untied the oxen. Their warm breath curled in the crisp morning air, their deep brown eyes reflecting my excitement. They knew me well after all as I had fed them, brushed them, spoken to them in whispers. But today was different. Today, they would follow my lead. I took the pair of oxen that were my favorites from the flock of cattle in the barn.

The earth was cool beneath my feet, damp with morning dew. The plow gleamed in the half-light, waiting. My fingers wrapped around the reins, and for the first time, I commanded the oxen forward. They obeyed. The soil parted beneath the blade, fresh earth rolling over in waves. A deep, rich scent filled the air, and my heart soared in excitement.

A song rose from my chest, a song of praise for my oxen, for the land, for the future we would carve together: I sang my visionary song from my excited heart saying “Let’s till the fresh land, let’s soften it and we will sow every crop. That would feed the family that would feed our society. And you will have the best grass, crystal pure water, and a comfortable resting place.”

The oxen pulled harder, their strides confident, matching the rhythm of my voice. Around me, birds swooped and chirped, drawn to the fresh-turned soil where worms and insects wiggled free. The river beside the field hummed in harmony, its flowing water a chorus to my song. I thought that all were singing with me, the birds, the river, the trees swaying by the wind and the wind itself.

Dad was silent. I glanced over at him. He wasn’t singing like he used to, but his hands worked the plow beside mine, steady and sure. I realized then, mine was his song now. The quiet songs of a father seeing his son taking his place on the land was his silent song of confirmation. I worked until the sun dripped gold over the horizon. Sweat ran down my face, my hands ached, but I didn’t stop. I was no longer just a son. I was a provider. I was a farmer. We had tilled a wide area in the field and Dad was thrilled. He said” son it is enough for today. You have proved to be a promising farmer. Now take the oxen to the river and then to their best grazing field.”

The sun was beginning to set as I stood in the vast grazing field, my loyal oxen beside me grazing the best feed of the day. I ran my hands over their strong backs, whispering to them, praising them for the strength they would bring to the plow. "Together, we will till the largest fields," I sang, my voice blending with the evening breeze. "We will grow crops so abundant that our family and our village will rejoice. The harvest will be plenty, and you, my oxen, shall always be honored."

The oxen flicked their ears as if listening, their bodies calm and steady. Their deep, dark eyes seemed to hold an understanding, and I felt a harmony between us. I continued my song, promising those days of care, rich pastures, and a life of purpose. The rhythm of my voice matched the slow movement of the wind through the grass, creating a moment of peace.

But before I knew it, dusk had crept upon me. The golden hues of the sky faded into the encroaching darkness, and the grazing field turned into a shadowy expanse. That was when something unexpected happened. My gaze was drawn to a flickering glow beneath the old, towering tree at the far end of the field. A flame, burning steadily in the dark.

I stopped singing, my breath hitching. Who could have set a fire there? The thought of someone lurking in the shadows sent a shiver through me. My oxen sensed it too. Their ears pricked up sharply, and their hooves beat against the ground in restless anticipation.

I took a hesitant step forward, my curiosity overwhelming my caution. The flame wavered but remained, standing like a silent beacon in the night. I gripped my torch, determined to approach. But just as I lifted it, my oxen grew more agitated.

Then, I noticed something else, countless tiny glimmers reflecting back at me. At first, I thought it was the fire’s light playing tricks on my eyes. But as I inhaled sharply, a realization struck me. They were hyenas, dozens of them, their eyes glowing like malevolent stars in the darkness, creeping toward me with slow, deliberate steps. My thrill of discovery turned into the cold grip of fear. I and my oxen were no longer just curious observers but were turning into prey.

A chill ran down my spine. They prowled forward, silent shadows against the earth. My oxen huffed, stamping their hooves. My grip on the torch tightened. I couldn’t let them panic my oxen. So, I sang. I sang a bold, fearless song, my voice deepening to sound like a man’s: “I am not afraid. I am not a fearsome child anymore.” I felt my oxen got encouraged too.

The hyenas hesitated, their yellow eyes gleaming in the torchlight. But they kept coming. My heart pounded against my ribs, my breath quick and sharp. Immediately, I heard our dogs began barking fierce running swiftly towards us, unrelenting. Dad’s dogs and then Dad himself, pacing toward me with his torch held high. The hyenas melted into the darkness, chased away by the snarling dogs. My breath came in ragged gulps; the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins. Dad clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Why were you so late?” I exhaled. “I didn’t notice the time and it has already darkened.”

Back at home, the atmosphere was different, warm, jubilant, and alive. A grand feast awaited me, a celebration of my passage into manhood as a farmer. The entire village gathered in our compound, their laughter rising like the crackling of the great fire that lit up the night. A large sheep was slaughtered in my honor, its rich aroma mingling with the scent of fresh bread and spiced stew. The elders clapped me on the back, their eyes filled with pride, while the younger children gazed at me as if I had stepped out of the legends their mothers had been telling them. The boys pounded their drums in rhythmic beats, the girls sang songs woven with my name, and the mothers and grandmothers hummed ancestral melodies that carried the weight of generations. Even the old men, their voices raspy with age, chanted in my honor, celebrating my transformation into a promising farmer.

And yet, even as the feast carried on around me, my mind wandered elsewhere. The flickering flame beneath the great tree still burned in my thoughts. Had it not been for the hyenas, I might have discovered who had lit it, and what it meant. The question gnawed at me, a whisper in the back of my mind, louder even than the drumming and singing of my village.

I told myself that when dawn arrived, I would return. I would find out what had burned beneath that tree in that dark moment. The next morning, I returned to the spot. The earth was undisturbed. No ashes. No wood. No remnants of fire. Only the whisper of the wind, carrying a question I could never answer. My hands trembled. “ I asked myself how a fire can burn without leaving ashes where only woods and cow dungs are the sources to ignite fire? “I never found the answer. And years later, the mystery still haunts me.