The Fruits of the Mopane

The Fruits of the Mopane
The mopane stands,
rooted in our soil,
wide enough to gather us all.

In summer
it sheds its small yellow leaves,
and we wake early—
African women, African children—
to sweep the yard,
embracing what has fallen,
making space for the day.

By midday
we sit beneath its shade,
cool stories resting on warm ground,
laughter folding into laughter,
traditional games tracing dust and memory.

The mopane does not rush.
It teaches patience.

Its green returns.
Its branches thicken.
And when the season is right,
the fruits arrive—
not hanging,
but crawling.

Mopane worms.
Growing quietly,
waiting for our hands,
for our songs,
for harvest.

We gather them,
dry them,
cook them,
eat.
The tree feeds us
without asking us to leave.

Shade.
Beauty.
Leaves.
Food.
Story.

The mopane gives,
and even what it drops
becomes part of us.

This is how we grow—
not from ease,
but from what we learn to receive.