I graciously sang, hopeful that Namukhula could discern the pleadingin my voice and calm down. I even rubbed her neck in the process butshe still kicked, knocking down the small bucket I had placed underher udder in readiness for milking. I don't know what was wrong withher but I suspected that Kuka, my little brother, had mixedsomething in her dairy meal.

“Kuka, Kuka, come here” I shouted but, as I expected, there was noresponse. Kuka could be somewhere, in the house or the granary oreven in the kennel tending to his ever-riotous dogs. I knew he washearing me but he was clever enough to know that most of the time Icalled him¸ it was not for sweets and chocolates. A few minuteslater, mama, who was in the smoke-filled outside kitchen preparingevening tea, came out. She was still wearing the same soil-ladenkanga she had used in the farm.The cassavas and potatoes she had uprooted were well packed in asisal sack, waiting for me to take them to the market.

“Nafula baane! Girls are not supposedto shout like that. What man will marry a woman with a throat ashoarse and loud as a whistle? Kuka has taken his dogs for a walk”mama said, the last statement coming out smoothly as if taking thedogs out was some kind of a revered ritual. As mama wiped her eyesto clear off the tears triggered by the incessant smoke, I realizedthat everything seemed awry that day: Namukhula was kicking hardevery time I touched her udder; the firewood mama was using was notwell dried, creating a tent of smoke that engulfed thegrass-thatched kitchen roof, rising towards the sky like some jinnescaping from a bottle; and now mama was drawing back to her usualmarriage narrative to pin me down.

“What has he done to Namukhula? I think I know what he has done,” Iasked and answered at the same time like Sherlock Holmes would dowhen inquiring something from Dr. Watson and realizing that thelatter had no clue. Kuka was more stubborn than any of the notoriousboys I knew in our village Eshianda-Mushimuli.