We sat under the tall limba tree that day, with no idea these were the last days of paradise.

The branches and leaves cowered over us, a welcome protection from the blazing afternoon heat. Behind, an uneven, sandy path through a row of trees which flourished majestically under a hazy sky. This was me, almost every day, cloaked in the familiarity and comfort of my favorite spot with my favorite brother, Kabili. Close enough to hear Mama calling for help with a chore, yet far away enough for the illusion of solitude, free to privately discuss pressing issues of the day, such as what it would be like to catch the multicolored thick-toed gecko currently moving toward the top of a tree.

“I almost caught one yesterday!” said Kabili, my elder by three years. I believed the beginning of his story to be true because I’d never doubted anything from his mouth, even if Kabili was well-known in the family for telling half-truths. Just like when he insisted he’d been involved in the killing of the ram Mama served up last Sunday; an unfounded boast because everyone knew Kabili was the first to vomit at the sight of dripping blood.

Being the youngest in my family, a host of questions permanently rested on the tip of my tongue—how do you outrun a gecko? the least important of them all.

“Kabili . . .”

“Yes, brother?”

“Where do you go . . . when you go with them?”

The sound of my name punctured the moment.

“Dikembe!”

Even when raised, my mama’s voice rang sweet inside my ears. Being the youngest of five and likely to be her last, I believed that of all her sons, I was the special one. I only felt this because she constantly made me feel this way with her words. Whispers mixed with an aroma of freshly made stew as we stood over a cooking fire: “A good child, that is you.”