It was a warm Sunday afternoon in Umlazi. The scent of roast chicken, chakalaka, and sun-dried laundry danced through Ma Gloria’s open windows. Dodo parked just outside the gate, weary but resolved. Portia and Henry had barely spoken the whole ride, the last of their disappointment still raw and sticking to their ribs like week-old pap.
Inside, Ma Gloria greeted them with her usual mix of excitement and holy suspicion. She hugged the children tight, prayed over them quickly, then turned to Dodo with a curt nod.
“Come in,” she said. “You look thin. Are you eating at all?”
Dodo shrugged. “Stress diet.”
They settled in the lounge. The kids nibbled on snacks Ma Gloria had laid out. After a moment of awkward silence, Portia spoke up, surprising everyone.
“Gogo,” she said, her voice sharp a
