I once thought libraries were burial grounds for knowledge — until I heard the sound of bees. Yes, they are quiet. 

Shelves stand like fences, books lined like monuments to distant voices. But learning in such stillness feels heavy, 

a silence so delicate it guards order more than it invites discovery. 

Then I visited into an apiculture museum at Usambara Mountains 

And watched bees and villagers at work. 

The air was a lesson: cooperation, memory, survival. 

Knowledge alive — not trapped in pages, but moving, shared, tasted. 

No one waited to be told when to speak. Everyone belonged. 

And I thought — what if our libraries became like this? 

Not just rooms for reading, but hives for making. 

Places where youths who never sat in a classroom could still gather, 

where honey harvests turned into lessons, 

where indigenous knowledge stood side by side with books, 

where curiosity was louder than silence. 

Our generation cannot inherit libraries frozen in time. 

We must reimagine them, rebuild them 

until they hum with our own stories, 

until they carry the rhythm of our languages,

until they become alive enough to grow with us.