THE EVENING CONVERSATION

 

 It is a Wednesday evening, the kind that arrives quietly.

The sun is folding itself behind the trees, and the house carries that familiar pre-supper stillness. I am seated on the wooden chair by the window, a book resting open on my lap. My fingers hold a page, but my eyes are not moving as fast as they should. I am thinking more than I am reading.

Across the room, Chiyambi is watching me.

She is ten, but her silence is never empty. It is the kind that gathers questions before releasing them.

“Daddy,” she finally says, breaking the stillness, “do you ever get tired of reading?”

I look up slowly, marking my page out of habit.

“Not really,” I say. “Why?”

She shifts on the couch, pulling her legs closer, studying me like I am one of the books she doesn’t understand.

“Because you’re always reading,” she says. “Or writing. Or looking at your phone, analysing Facebook posts.” She pauses, then adds, “It looks like work… but also not like work.”

I smile a little. “It is work.”

She shakes her head gently. “But is it useful work?”

That lands differently.

I close the book now, fully. “What do you mean, Chiyambi?”

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, her voice gaining confidence.

“I mean… these books you read—some of them are very old. People wrote them before I was even born. Before you were even born.” She squints slightly. “How do they help you now? The world is fast, Daddy. Things are changing. Why are you still reading things from a long time ago?”

I let out a quiet breath. It is not the question of a child—it is the challenge of a generation.

“Because,” I say carefully, “truth doesn’t expire. Some ideas are older than all of us, but they still explain the world better than what is trending today.”

She tilts her head, unconvinced.

“But do they give you money?”

Ah. There it is.

I lean back in my chair. “Not always directly.”

She nods quickly, as if she has been waiting for that answer.

“That’s what I’m saying!” she says. “You spend the whole day working, but sometimes… it doesn’t look like it gives us enough.” She hesitates, then adds softly, “I feel… less happy about that.”

Her honesty is clean. It does not try to protect me.

I sit up, resting my elbows on my knees now, meeting her at her level.

“Chiyambi,” I say, “there are two kinds of careers. One you do because you love it. The other you do because it pays well. Sometimes, if you are lucky, they are the same thing.”

“And yours?” she asks quickly.

“Mine is the first one,” I answer.

She sighs, leaning back again.

“But why choose that one?” she presses. “Why not choose the one that gives money? Even if you don’t like it, at least life becomes easier.”

I smile faintly. “Easier on the outside, maybe. But harder on the inside.”

She frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“If I wake up every day to do something I don’t love,” I explain, “I may have money, yes. But I will be tired in a way that sleep cannot fix.”

She looks at me carefully, weighing my words like small stones in her hand.

“But money fixes many things,” she insists. “School fees. Food. Nice things.” Then, with a seriousness that startles me, she adds, “Writing may be your career, Daddy, but it is less paying. You can do other things… like being a medical doctor. Or even a politician.”

I laugh softly—not because it is funny, but because it is real.

“You think I should become a politician?” I ask.

She shrugs. “At least they have money.”

I shake my head, still smiling. “Not everything that has money has peace.”

She doesn’t smile back.

“I still think you should change,” she says. “You can do something you don’t like… but for us.”

The room grows quiet again. Outside, a bird calls once, then disappears into the evening.

I look at her—this young girl who is already negotiating life with the sharpness of reality.

“And what if,” I say slowly, “I teach you that loving what you do is also important? That not everything is measured by money?”

She looks down at her hands.

“And what if,” she replies just as slowly, “I learn that money is what makes life better… even if you don’t love what you do?”

We sit there, both holding truths that refuse to bend.

From the kitchen, the sound of plates being arranged breaks the tension.

“Supper is ready!” a voice calls.

Chiyambi stands first, smoothing her dress.

She looks at me one more time—not angry, not convinced, just… certain in her own way.

“Maybe when I grow up,” she says, “I will choose money.”

I pick up my book again, though I do not open it yet.

“Maybe when you grow up,” I respond, “you will understand why I chose this.”

She gives a small nod, as if agreeing to disagree, and walks toward the kitchen.

I remain behind for a moment.

The book is still in my hand. The words are still waiting. The questions too.

Outside, the last light fades—but inside, the conversation does not end.

It simply pauses… until the next Wednesday evening.