Bulanda is as much a part of her village’s landscape as the sprawling baobab trees. In the morning, she is often sighted with her herd of cattle, their hides a patchwork of hues under the sun. Her laughter echoes through the fields as she guides the animals with gentle words and a firm slap of her herding stick, the dry earth kicking up beneath their hooves.

But it is not only the cattle that answer her call; the very earth herself seems to bend to Bulanda's will. As she moves through the pastures, the scrub and grasses sway in her wake, leaning gently to soak up her passing shadow. The village elders speak in hushed whispers of the old ways, warning the young folk to stay clear of Bulanda, for the spirits of the land are close to her.

Bulanda pays little mind to the elders' murmurs, instead immersing herself in the earthy scents and textures that surround her. The dry leaves of the scrub brush crackle under her feet as she meanders, occasionally ducking to examine a cluster of wildflowers or pausing to pat an eager cow on the snout. There is a peculiar comfort in the simple rhythm of tending the cattle and coaxing the verdant life out of the arid soil.