When the Earth Begins to Speak

Chapter 22: When the Earth Begins to Speak

Katlego crouched low over a patch of soil, his hands dark with dirt. The garden was still young—mostly stems and promise—but it was growing. He and Naledi had spent the last few mornings planting in silence, communicating through glances and grunts, letting nature narrate.

He liked it this way. No pressure to perform. Just sweat, soil, and slow magic.

Behind him, Naledi watered the herbs while humming a hymn her grandmother used to sing. There was a time when the sound of someone else's voice in the early morning would have annoyed him. But now, it settled in him like roots.

"How do you think lemon trees grieve?" Naledi asked suddenly.

Katlego smiled without turning. "They grow quietly. Then one day, they fruit like nothing happened."

She chuckled. "So you're saying grief makes you sweeter?"

"Eventually. If you survive it."

That silenced them both for a moment.

The metaphor was heavy, but true.

Katlego reached for the spade again, digging a shallow row for the green beans. His back ached, but it was a good ache—earned, not inflicted.

"I want to teach a class outside next week," he said.

Naledi perked up. "In the garden?"

"Yes. Writing in the soil. Let the students touch the earth as they speak. Maybe their words will root deeper."

She wiped her hands on her skirt and came to sit beside him. "You've turned into a farmer of feelings."

"Better than being a builder of walls."

They laughed together, and the garden seemed to smile too.

That Friday, he held the first-ever "Write from the Earth" workshop with ten students from his college writing course.

They arrived curious and hesitant, some carrying notebooks, others just showing up with nervous energy.

He gave each of them a single instruction:

"Before you write, plant one seed. Literally. Dig a hole, place the seed, cover it, then sit and write. Let the act of growing become your metaphor."

Some were unsure, but they obeyed.

Soon the garden was filled with the quiet shuffle of young people planting basil, lavender, spinach. Then came pens and notebooks. Heads bent. Words flowing.

Dineo raised her hand. "What if my seed doesn't grow?"

Katlego replied, "Then write about that. Sometimes, even failure is fertile ground."

After the session, Musa approached him with a crumpled page and eyes full of question.

"I wrote something, but I don't know what it is," he said.

Katlego unfolded the page. It read:

I never knew my father.

But I know how silence sounds when it slams a door.

I know how it hums in the corners of my room at night.

I know that maybe he didn't leave because he hated me—

maybe he left because no one ever taught him how to stay.

Katlego looked up.

Musa's lips trembled. "Does it sound childish?"

"No," Katlego said firmly. "It sounds true. And that's harder to write than anything else."

Musa nodded. "Then I'll keep writing."

Katlego clapped him gently on the shoulder. "Keep planting too. You're growing something honest."

The garden quickly became a sanctuary.

By week's end, the students had named it:

"The Page Beneath Our Feet."

They painted a wooden sign and placed it by the gate.

Katlego stood by that sign one evening, notebook in hand, as Naledi joined him carrying a mug of coffee.

"I've never seen you look so full," she said.

"Because I finally stopped trying to prove I deserve this life. I'm just living it."

She touched his arm. "Then I'm glad I found you at forty-seven."

He turned to her, voice low. "Would you have loved me at thirty?"

She paused. "Maybe. But you wouldn't have known what to do with it then."

He nodded, understanding.

"You were always a writer," she added. "But now you're also the story."

The next morning, a surprise email landed in his inbox. It was from a literary journal in the U.S. They had found Shadows and Light through a South African book blogger and wanted to feature an excerpt in their upcoming issue on Intergenerational Wounds and Healing.

Katlego read the email twice.

Not for validation—but because it reminded him that words traveled further than their origin. They didn't just land on pages—they landed in hearts.

He forwarded the email to Thabo with a note:

We're going global, son.

Thabo responded with a voice note.

"I showed Mama your book again last night. She read parts of it aloud. She didn't cry this time. She just nodded. I think that's the sound of healing too."

Katlego closed his eyes and let that voice linger.

Sometimes, the loudest absolution was a quiet nod.

The end of the semester approached. Katlego announced the final project to his students.

"Don't write an essay. Write a ritual. Something you do every day to stay human. Describe it with enough honesty that it makes a stranger cry."

Some frowned.

Others smiled nervously.

Then the notebooks opened.

And the garden buzzed with pens and wind and soil and soul.

One day, during class, it began to rain. Soft, steady rain. The students rushed to cover their bags, their books—but no one ran inside.

Instead, they stood in the garden, palms open to the sky, letting the rain baptize their progress.

Katlego stood among them, soaked, grinning.

Dineo shouted, "Sir, this is what growth feels like!"

He laughed. "Then let it pour!"

And so it did.

That night, Katlego and Naledi lay side by side, the window open, the scent of wet soil drifting in.

He turned to her. "I think this is what I was meant to do all along."

"To teach?" she asked.

"To be present. To plant. To stay."

She touched his face. "Then stay, love. As long as the earth keeps calling your name."

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in decades, he didn't dream of what could have been.

He dreamed of what was.

And it was enough.