Today I went to pay my youngest sister’s school fees. I found her there, like I do every time, patiently going about her business (she’s the accountant/ administrator.) She’s there year in, year out. I went to the same primary school as my sister years ago, and when I was there, she was also there. I found her there. I left her there. I always leave her there. Her name is Eucabeth. Always with a ready smile, a certain halo hangs about her, like just by being herself, unspeaking, she’s saying, “Welcome back home.” I get the impression she’s there because she wants to be, not for lack of options. It’s a choice that she, I gather, has not made lightly. How many of us can muster that kind of commitment (to use a simple single word to try and capture it all)? To believe in something so strongly that you’d literally give your life to it? One could argue that only the lazy and unambitious could stick with one gig for that long (going on about twenty years now, and then some, perhaps.) Our current pop culture ridicules the idea of commitment. Relationships, especially for men I find, bear a significant heaviness of this idea. You aren’t living, man! if you aren’t shagging half the girls in town. Commitment is for pussies. I digress. That moment got me thinking: could there be a nobility, a serenity in committing to doing something, one thing, to make the choice to build and nurture it, painstakingly, unendingly, everyday for the rest of your life? Yes, there could be a point to it.