There I was, standing still, blending perfectly into an outfit the sun had never laid eyes on. The moon hung low—a pale lantern in the sky—casting long shadows across the dusty path to Amai Ozuna’s house. Beside me, Nkhanga tapped the soles of his gondolo shoes together nervously, producing a soft clink… clink… clink that echoed through the quiet night. Yes, the very shoes that had drawn the dog to him the night before and, as I could confirm, the only pair he owned. We had no choice. I felt the pressure, knowing it was my shoe left behind, and his footsteps could easily reveal if he was being coerced, even though he technically had the right to refuse.
I hissed, “One more sound like that, and we’ll be famous tomorrow morning—for all the wrong reasons.”
He grinned, playing offended, but I could see the tremor beneath the surface, the same mix of fear and excitement twisting inside me.
We crouched behind a bush, watching the house like two guilty spirits. The dog was nowhere in sight, but the memory of its jaws snapping at Nkhanga’s hand the previous night made my stomach churn. I swallowed hard, trying to convince myself tonight would be different. Tonight, we were professionals—not the notorious boys fleeing from rats, dogs, and our own recklessness.
I glanced behind us to make sure we weren’t outnumbered and traced the map we had drawn earlier in the dirt with my finger. Not a Michael Scofield blueprint tattooed across my back, but a map I had memorized with photographic precision. The side door was partially unlocked, the back window slightly ajar, and the shadows perfectly aligned for our moonlit mischief.
Nkhanga’s hand brushed mine as he leaned closer. “Ready?” he whispered, eyes shining with mischief.
I nodded, though my stomach wasn’t in agreement. Why wasn’t the door locked? Could this be a trap?
A branch snapped behind us. I froze. Nkhanga froze. For a heartbeat, the chaos of the previous night flooded back—the jingling shoes, the dog, the rat, the bucket of water. Then, with a quiet burst of courage, we stepped forward, becoming shadows among shadows, and began the hunt for my missing shoe—our ill-fated treasure.
We slipped inside the house. Sure enough, Justinta—his girlfriend—was snoring. I could tell he was disappointed; apparently, a sleeping girlfriend was not part of his plan.
“Focus,” I muttered.
Immediately, he bumped his head on a plate, producing a noise loud enough to betray us.
We searched the house and finally found the missing shoe, completing the puzzle. A quiet victory welled in my chest, but the devil clearly had other plans. Out of nowhere, the dog we had dodged earlier began barking outside, waking Amai Ozuna and her granddaughter, Justinta.
They stepped outside, leaving the two unauthorized intruders trapped inside. How were we supposed to escape now—with the shoe in hand and the house’s owners alert and furious at the dog’s disturbance?
We had two options: dash through the door and hope our legs were fast enough, or escape through the thatched roof—a plan that would take at least thirty minutes. We chose the first.
After counting to ten, we burst through the door at full speed. I was incredibly agile, so I insisted on leading despite the dog chasing us. I flexed my legs, braced myself, and shot through the doorway.
The dog lunged after me immediately, barking ferociously, but adrenaline drowned everything out. Not far behind, Nkhanga launched into his own marathon sprint, legs pumping like pistons. As we cleared the first yard, Justinta recognized her boyfriend and shouted. Instead of staying quiet, Nkhanga responded—of all things—and in that moment, Amai Ozuna’s voice thundered from the doorway: “I’ve known you!”
We could have escaped the lion’s den that night, but once again, foolish love betrayed us. Nkhanga’s response to his girlfriend exposed us, and no amount of speed could salvage our dignity.
By the time we reached home, panting like overworked dogs, we agreed we needed sober minds to deliberate what would happen next.
Silence settled over the house as we blamed each other in whispers until exhaustion overtook us and history pulled us into sleep.
Morning came. Before we could even finish our leftover nsima, a summons arrived: we were to appear before the headman the coming Saturday to explain our actions at Amai Ozuna’s house. We had five days to come up with a story—or a lie—but I knew something had to be done.
“Palibe Kanthu,” I thought. That would be our escape.
Palibe Kanthu is a Nyanja word referring to roots people keep in their pockets to boost confidence and sway verdicts in their favor—at least, according to local belief. Only a privileged few know where the roots are found or what they truly look like.
Would Palibe Kanthu work to our advantage? Days rushed toward us with the seriousness of a funeral. Even the birds outside chirped in judgment, and the rooster crowed as if it had personally witnessed our crimes. Nkhanga and I sat on the mat in total silence, staring at the empty plates that had held the last of our nsima. Appetite was a luxury we could not afford.
For the next hour, we rehearsed lies so badly constructed that even termites wouldn’t bother to chew on them—they lacked the sweetness of logic. We agreed that moonlight had deceived Amai Ozuna’s eyes, but the shoe remained a glaring flaw in the plan. Eventually, we abandoned rehearsals altogether.
When the sun climbed higher, we accepted the truth: there was no escape. Saturday morning in village language meant people were already gathering.
We stepped out of the house like prisoners walking themselves to jail, convincing ourselves that Palibe Kanthu would work wonders.
Look forward to Chapter 3: Will Palibe Kanthu Work?
