At Jiji Ndogo, excitement is like a kakuota from your local butcher —everyone makes it their own way and it’s never enough. The tiniest news shakes the village like a small tree turned scratch post by an elephant. Today’s news will be bad, but without the gift of foresight, I prance around in the morning, happy as a lark.
“We should get married right away,” says Sgt Sophia.
Now that I can officially call her my girlfriend, you should see how swollen my head is. No, we haven’t been fighting. It’s swollen with pride.
“Right away?” I ask. “But I’m yet to ask your father for your hand in marriage. I’m a gentleman, you know.”
She scowls. “If you’re talking about asking Inspector Tembo, he’s not my father. He’s just a sperm donor who impregnated my mother.”
“Sophia, he didn’t know you existed until a few months ago, and he’s been trying his best to make amends. You have to give him a chance. What’s the rush with the marriage, anyway?”
“Have you seen the price of cooking oil? Unga? This isn’t a one-person economy, Makini. And if you won’t marry me until there’s a father to ask, then you might as well quit wasting my time.”
“Phew! For a brief moment there, I thought it’s because you love me.”
“Of course, I love you, but no one ever ate love for dinner, silly.”
“And I’m the unromantic one? Can we at least visit my mum?”
Before she answers, a black Mercedes screeches to a halt outside the Police Post. A young man in an impeccable suit steps out, crinkles his nose as if he lost his way and ended up at the Dandora dumpsite.
“Can we help you?” Sophia asks. “Are you lost?”
“Is this Jiji Ndogo?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m not. The name is McOnyango.” He shakes Sophia’s hand. “Well, well, well. What’s a bombshell like you doing in the Kalahari?”
“Shooting men who don’t mind their own business. Is there anything else?”
“My father lives here. Mr Juma. His phone is off and I haven’t been able to reach him for the past three days.”
Sophia turns to me. “You know a Mr Juma?”
“He’s the old man who lives by himself on the farm by the river.”
“I bought him that farm,” says McOnyango proudly.
“And you’ve never visited?” I shake my head. “We’ll take you.”
We pile into his Mercedes, drive out to the farm gate. We walk the rest of the way since the last 100m to the house are impassable by car.
Near the house, Sophia crinkles her nose. “Smells like a dead animal out here.”
“Old man has a dog,” McOnyango says. “It probably died somewhere in the property.”
The odour worsens as we near the house. I knock on the door, sending an army of flies buzzing out through the eaves. “Mr Juma?”
After a while, we break into the house. A gust of foul stench blasts through the open door. On the couch are the decomposed remains of an adult male. His clothes have rotted away, but a watch is still on his wrist.
“Is that your father?” Sophia asks.
“Yes. I’d recognise that watch anywhere.”
“I thought you said the two of you haven’t spoken in three days.”
“Three days, three months, can’t remember which. Can I have the watch? It’s a family heirloom.”
Sophia grabs my shirt, an intense look in her eyes. “No one’s father should end up like this. After this, I’m patching things up with Tembo.”
