Dodo wasn’t looking for anything that day. She’d popped into the supermarket with a tight list, tighter budget, and not a single strand of wig glued down. She wore tights, sneakers, and a hoodie that read “Writer. Mother. Miracle on two legs.” Portia had begged her to wear something else.
She was reaching for a tin of chakalaka when someone said, “Be careful. That brand has more oil than flavour.”
She looked up.
He was tall, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of neat beard that suggested a healthy relationship with barbers and maybe God. He was holding a basket with fresh herbs, chicken, and a bottle of juice. He smiled like they already knew each other.
“I go to Ma Gloria’s church,” he added, sensing her guard rise. “I’ve seen you there with her once or twice.”
“Ah,” Dodo said. “So yo
