Glider Class Initiated
The morning after the storm, Gweru woke to wet streets and cold air. Puddles glimmered on the dirt roads like scattered pieces of glass, and the scent of damp earth hung everywhere.
Tendai moved quietly through it all, his blue school uniform neat and presentable but not exactly new—the kind of uniform you see on most kids, clean and pressed but faded at the elbows and cuffs. The hem of his trousers was already damp from puddles. His tie hung loosely and a bit crooked from rushing, and his schoolbag slumped against one shoulder, weighed down not just by textbooks but by something more unusual—an umbrella, wrapped in cloth and strapped tightly to the side like a secret hiding in plain sight.
He hadn’t let it out of his sight since yesterday. Even closed and still, the umbrella felt almost alive in his hand. The handle, cool and smooth, would pulse gently sometimes, as if it was listening.
Tendai tried to ignore it, telling himself it was just nerves or maybe the leftover excitement from his birthday. But as he passed the old, abandoned railway station, the wind shifted. It didn’t just blow past—it gathered around him.
At first it was playful, tugging at his collar and the straps of his bag. Then it thickened, wild and restless. Without thinking, his fingers tightened on the umbrella’s handle. The response was instant. The umbrella snapped open with a sharp whoosh, the fabric spreading fast. The wind caught it at once, lifting him a few inches off the ground and pushing him forward, as if it had found exactly the right moment. Tendai’s heart lurched. He didn’t know what was happening—just that something had been triggered, and the umbrella had answered, not like a voice but like an instrument tuned just right.
His shoes scraped over damp granite stones, the old railway platform now half-eaten by weeds. Rusted rails poked out in places, and a broken bench leaned sideways, faded and forgotten. As Tendai floated, arms stretched out, shirt flapping, legs dangling, he could barely breathe. The umbrella above him stayed open and steady. He wasn’t really scared, just amazed—he was off the ground, floating. And it felt real.
He hovered for a few moments, everything beneath him a slow blur. He wasn’t flying, but he wasn’t just falling either. It was something in between—a long pause in the middle of a drop.
Then the wind faded and let him go. He dropped hard onto both knees, the shock shooting up his legs. His uniform hit the mud with a loud slap, splashing dirty water up his arms and across his shirt. Grit and soil stuck everywhere, soaking into his trousers. His tie slipped off to one side.
He stayed there for a moment, stunned, the pain burning in his knees and elbows. His breath came in sharp bursts. Slowly, he looked down and checked his hands—scraped but not bleeding. He rubbed at his shins, wincing at the sting, then wiped mud from his sleeves as best he could. Only after a while did he push himself to his feet, legs trembling a bit. He glanced around—no one had seen.
Two thoughts came fast. First, his mother, Mrs. Masango, would not be happy. She was patient and kind, but she drew a line at muddy uniforms in her clean house. He could almost picture her—one eyebrow raised, lips pressed together, hands on her hips. She didn’t have to shout to make her point. Second, who would ever believe him? If he tried to explain what had just happened, they’d laugh—floating in the air, wind that listened? They’d say he slipped in the rain and hit his head.
Whatever this was, it had happened to him alone. For now, he had no idea what to do with it.
He looked at the umbrella, expecting it to be as dirty as his clothes. But it wasn’t. It stood open a few steps away, upright in the mud, untouched. The fabric was clean, the ribs unbent, not even a smudge on it. Tendai stepped closer, heart pounding, and reached for the handle. The moment his fingers touched it, the umbrella folded in on its own with a soft swish, like it had been waiting for him. He jumped, but didn’t let go.
His heart beat faster, caught between fear and awe. He wasn’t panicking, but he wasn’t calm either. This was something new.
Suddenly, inside his head, a gentle voice spoke. It wasn’t loud or commanding—just a whisper, like a thought he had always carried but never noticed.
Glider Class Initiated.
Tendai blinked. The voice faded away, but the feeling lingered—a quiet thread tugging at the back of his mind.
He stood there a moment, shivering, then picked up his bag and started walking again.
At school, Tendai tried to sneak through the gate, but there was no hiding the muddy stains on his uniform. The knees of his trousers were stiff with dirt. Boys from his class burst into laughter as soon as they saw him.
“Eh, Masango, did you fight a hippo on your way here?” one shouted.
Another added, “Or did the rain throw you down for not greeting it?”
Normally, Tendai would have gone red, mumbled something, maybe hidden behind his bag or ducked into the toilets to clean up. But today, he just smiled a little and kept moving.
“Fell in a puddle,” he told the teacher who stopped him. “Slipped by the station.”
It earned him a shake of the head and a warning to be more careful. But Tendai just nodded. He didn’t argue.
Because none of them knew. Not the boys, not the teachers, not even the prefect who told him to tuck in his shirt. No one knew what had really happened. He wasn’t just another boy anymore. He was the boy with a secret. Something had changed—and even if no one else saw it, he felt it with every step. They saw the dirt and his excuses. But Tendai carried something now, something no one else could touch. He went through his day with dirty trousers and a straight back—not because he wasn’t embarrassed, but because he knew something they didn’t. Whatever this thing was, he was not the same.
That afternoon, Tendai didn’t go straight home. Instead, he wandered out of town, away from the shops and fences, drawn to the low hills—places most people ignored, good for thinking and being alone.
The sky was still grey, but out here the wind was stronger.
He started to test things. He jumped from small rocks and opened the umbrella. He flung himself into the wind, arms out, knees bent. Most times, he fell.
He hit the ground hard, rolled, slid through wet grass, scraped his elbows and palms. After each fall, he lay still for a few moments, catching his breath, rubbing the soreness from his arms and legs, before trying again. But every stumble taught him something.
He learned when to lean forward, when to let the wind carry him, how to be still and feel the breeze. The umbrella didn’t just follow—it worked with him now, matching his effort in a quiet, steady way.
Sometimes, it tugged gently in his grip just before he jumped. Other times, it felt stiff, like it wanted him to slow down. But if he breathed deeply and stayed calm, it opened right on time—almost like it was waiting for him to get it right.
By late afternoon, he was gliding. Not far, not high, but for real. From one rock to another, across ditches, through narrow dips. Each time, his feet touched the ground lighter.
By evening, he was worn out. His clothes were damp and torn. His arms ached. His legs trembled from exhaustion, and the skin on his palms was red and raw.
When he finally flopped under a wide tree, the sun was setting, painting the clouds gold and purple. He smiled.
But then a cold thought spoiled the moment—he should have been home hours ago. Lunchtime, or soon after. His smile faded. He jumped up, adrenaline rushing, and packed the umbrella in a hurry. His muscles screamed, but he didn’t stop until he was back on the main road, heading for home at a trot.
By the time he pushed open the gate, the sun had already dipped behind the houses. Mrs. Masango was waiting by the door, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“Where have you been, Tendai?” she asked.
“Studying,” he said, looking away. “We were doing group work. I lost track of time.”
She just stared for a long moment, then turned and went inside.
That night, when the house was quiet and Tendai was asleep, his parents sat at the edge of their bed, the door half-closed.
“There’s something going on with that boy,” Mrs. Masango said, folding a shirt.
Mr. Masango grunted, taking off his shoes. “He’s been… different lately. That quiet kind of different.”
“You think it’s just teenage things?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But maybe not. I’ll keep an eye on him. If something’s wrong, we’ll catch it.”
Outside, the wind shifted in the trees. Inside, the umbrella lay folded in the corner of Tendai’s room.
