Time passed quickly, like a monkey stealing mangoes from Mzee Kasongo tree (which happened more than the village liked to admit).

Otieno's hands had grown tough, rougher than his mother's hard ugali, but he wore the rough patches proudly.

The forest had changed – sunlight streamed through the leaves like honey as if the sky had found sweetness.

"Foolish boy," the village elder said, his voice rough like dry wood. "Trees can’t break curses."

He sat down on a log but jumped up quickly with a sharp cry—a thorn had pricked him.

Otieno bit his lip to keep from laughing.

But Otieno kept working, even when his back hurt worse than the village rooster's cry (and that rooster was loud).

His fingers bled from digging in hard soil. Still, he dug. The soil was hard, like his dad when asked to share his ugali.

His mum would have shaken her head and said, "Like father, like son—stubborn as ever."

Then, the magic crept in quietly.

The maize grew tall, changing from weak yellow stalks to vigorous green plants.

Their sick goat, once as lazy as a sleeping sloth, now jumped and played on the fence posts.

And Wanja – her change was remarkable.

The cough in her chest disappeared like a chicken when a hawk flew over.

She said one morning, her voice clear as water, "I dreamed something strange. A woman with green eyes told me you were learning to listen."

She smiled and added, "That's new, since you never hear me when I tell you to wash the dishes."

Otieno's heart jumped like their playful goat. He'd never told Wanja about the witch.

As cooking fires turned the sky orange that evening, Otieno spoke to the village.

His legs shook, but his words came out strong.

"The forest lives," he said, looking at everyone.

"It breathes and bleeds like us. When we harm it......

Part 3

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