The oxtail had been on the stove since morning. The meat came off the bone before I touched it, the marrow already loose in the joint. Professor Mpho’s wife served it with pap, the stiff kind, and a chakalaka that was not from a tin. I ate everything she put in front of me. I went back for the pap. She didn’t talk

I had the banga stew on fire before morning. Palm fruit boiled soft, pounded, boiled again until the thick oil rose across the pot, giving me a deep orange at the edges. I stirred it every so often so it wouldn’t stick to the bottom, adjusted the pepper, and left the snails for last so the heat wouldn’t toughen them.

Azuka gripped the pencil too hard and made himself ease off before it left a dent in the wood.

His heart was beating fast. It always did on exam mornings. He’d stopped trying to talk it down years ago.

Through the windows, cars leaned on their horns somewhere in the go-slow outside. Inside, the ceiling fan wobbled on