The best thing you can do is remember your home town.

Host: The sun was setting over a field of red dust and golden light. The evening air was thick with the smell of charcoal and mango trees, the kind of scent that never leaves your bones, even when you’ve crossed oceans. Children ran barefoot through the narrow paths, their laughter echoing between mud walls and tin roofs.

At the edge of the village, under a leaning palm, Jack and Jeeny sat on a worn wooden bench that looked as if it had seen too many sunsets and not enough rest. The sky above them bled into orange and violet, a slow painting dissolving into night.

Jack: “Sadio Mané once said, ‘The best thing you can do is remember your hometown.’ Simple words. But maybe that’s why they hit so hard.”

Jeeny: “Because most people forget?”

Jack: “Because most people pretend they didn’t.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of a football being kicked, a dog barking, a woman’s voice calling her children home. Jack’s eyes followed the horizon, but his mind was far away — in another country, another life.

Jeeny: “You’ve been quiet since we got here. What are you thinking?”

Jack: “About how far I’ve come. And how little of me made it here intact.”

Jeeny: “You mean success cost you something.”

Jack: “It always does. You move away to become someone — and by the time you make it, you don’t know who that someone is anymore.”

Host: A pause. The sky darkened, and the first stars began to flicker — small, uncertain, like memories trying to remember themselves. Jeeny tilted her head, her eyes soft, searching him.

Jeeny: “Mané said that because he knew what it meant to grow up with nothing. And to make everything from it. Remembering your home town isn’t nostalgia, Jack. It’s gratitude.”

Jack: “Gratitude? Or guilt?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But guilt fades. Gratitude shapes you.”

Jack: “Tell that to the people who leave and never look back. You think they’re ungrateful? Or just trying to escape what broke them?”

Jeeny: “Escaping isn’t the same as forgetting. You can run all you want, but the soil that grew you never lets you go.”

Host: The evening deepened, shadows lengthening like the memories they spoke of. A motorbike roared past on the dirt road, kicking up dust that swirled in the air, catching the last of the light.

Jack: “I remember the smell of rain on cracked concrete. The sound of my mother’s voice when she called me in. The heat of summer when everything felt infinite. But when I go back now — it’s different. Smaller. Quieter. Like the past has forgotten me too.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not the town that changed. Maybe you did.”

Jack: “Yeah, I guess cities teach you how to forget. They make you think you can start over — until you realize you’re just carrying your old self in a new disguise.”

Jeeny: “That’s why remembering is the best thing you can do. Not to go back, but to stay real. Sadio Mané built hospitals in his hometown because he never wanted to forget who he was before the fame. That’s what remembering does — it keeps your heart human.”

Jack: “You think I’ve lost mine?”

Jeeny: “I think you’ve hidden it. Buried it under ambition, under what the world calls success.”

Host: Jack looked down, hands resting between his knees, the dirt beneath his fingers warm from the day’s sun. He scooped some up, letting it fall through his fingers, like time.

Jack: “When I first left, I told myself I’d come back rich. Build something here. Maybe a school, a library. But years passed, and I just… forgot.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t forget, Jack. You just got lost in the noise. The city teaches you to measure worth in money. Home reminds you it’s in meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay bills.”

Jeeny: “Neither does emptiness.”

Host: The crickets sang from the grass, a steady rhythm, as if punctuating her words. Jack chuckled, the sound low, but there was no mockery in it this time — only recognition.

Jack: “You sound like my grandmother. She used to say, ‘Never eat bread without remembering the soil that gave you grain.’ I never understood it till now.”

Jeeny: “It’s the same truth. Remembering your hometown isn’t about geography — it’s about grounding. It’s about remembering the child who dreamed before the man who achieved.”

Jack: “So memory’s supposed to keep me humble?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s supposed to keep you whole.”

Host: The moon rose, silver and steady, casting its light across the field where a group of boys now played, their voices bright with the kind of hope only the young and the poor can still afford. Jeeny watched them, a smile touching her lips.

Jeeny: “Look at them. One of them could be the next Mané. Or the next Jack.”

Jack: “Let’s hope he remembers more than I did.”

Jeeny: “He will — if someone like you reminds him.”

Jack: “You mean come back? Build something?”

Jeeny: “Not just build. Belong.”

Host: Jack nodded, silent, his eyes fixed on the boys. The sound of their laughter rose, mixed with the breeze, filling the night with something that felt like forgiveness.

Jeeny: “You know, Sadio Mané still lives by that. He said he doesn’t need luxury — that his happiness comes from helping his people. That’s what remembering does. It doesn’t chain you to the past; it gives your success purpose.”

Jack: “So, remembering is a responsibility?”

Jeeny: “It’s a return. Not to the place — but to yourself.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty. Jack stood, his figure outlined against the rising moon, and looked at the village — the rooftops, the dirt roads, the light from the small houses that looked like stars fallen to earth.

Jack: “You’re right. I’ve built a life with no roots. Maybe it’s time to plant something again.”

Jeeny: “Then start here. With memory. With dust and gratitude.”

Host: A dog barked, a rooster crowed somewhere — confused by the light of the moon. The night was alive again.

Jack: “You think home ever forgets us, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “No. Home waits. It’s patient. Like the earth — always ready to take you back, no matter how long you’ve been gone.”

Host: Jack smiled, a slow, tired, beautiful smile, the kind that comes when the heart finally stops running.

He looked at his hands, stained with dust, and for the first time in years, they didn’t feel dirty — they felt honest.

The breeze shifted, carrying the laughter of the children down the road, wrapping around him like a memory reborn.

And as the stars brightened, the village seemed to breathe,
a quiet reminder that the best thing a man can ever do
is not to arrive somewhere new —
but to remember where he began.