“Baba said he will be telling you the news himself,” Mama whispers faintly.
She is standing by the window, staring blankly at the old mango tree by the fence. Mama’s usual stunning big-boned frame suddenly seems small and old. She has snuck into my bedroom early in the morning to warn me about Baba’s announcement.
“Ropafadzo!”
“On my way, Baba!” I shout already running to the dining room. Knowing my father very well, delaying him was calling upon ‘bitter-sweet old reliable’, a name he gives his whip designed specifically for Mama and I. Baba is sitting comfortably in his rocking chair. A small hill of snuff on the palm of his left hand, a pinch in his right. I watch him inhale the snuff in his right, following is a sneeze that shakes his whole frame. Mama follows a few moments later, makes her way straight to our little kitchen to make Baba his morning sadza.