Beneath layers of faded, yellowing paper, half-obliterated doodles and abandoned sketches, Kito had initially manifested himself — not dramatically, perhaps, but quietly elegant. He had been just another sketch at first, actually — a pen spiral of twirling lines and colors of blot that took up residence on the page among the tens of thousands. Yet something in him had an inexorable draw. As other faces melted into the distance, Kito’s large, inquiring eyes and sharp, knowing smile seemed to span the page, exhaling a soft challenge: “I have a story to tell.”
Weeks passed into days, and the sketchbook saw its usual ritual — opened in fits of inspiration, closed in moments of quiet, flipped through in idle afternoons or in-the-midnight-hour musings. But no matter how many pages were turned, eyes somehow kept coming back to him. There was a pull, a kind of magic woven into the contours of his face — not loud, but insistent. Kito did not bellow for attention. He simply waited, knowing that his time would come. And it did.
A silent evening, the type where time becomes syrup and inspiration comes creeping in sneaking bursts, that’s when it changed. Lo-fi rhythms ghosted the atmosphere, blending with the scented smell of lit candle drifting through. With each breath, the room was invaded by quiet focus — and amidst that atmosphere, Kito’s being became more profound. He was no longer a character anymore; he started to become something else. A soul. A purpose. A spark consumed by narrative.
That night, Kito came alive as gifting sage that he was destined to be — a colorful embodiment of African happiness, culture, and meaning. A bearer of intention. The type of mentor who knows gifts aren’t goods; they’re seconds dressed in purpose, with affiliation. And although he had started as paper and ink, now it was clear: Kito wasn’t just attracted.
He was called. And he glowed — not because he demanded the spotlight, but because he was meant to be the light.