Milå dropped the tray of food onto the table, which was glassy like the contemporary appearance of her eyes. The aromas of garlic beef, lettuce salad, pineapple, nsima and chilli sauce failed to convince her appetite to stay with her. She turned her back on her parents, and limped away, off to her bedroom.

“Isn’t she going to eat tonight?” Khonzani asked Upendø.

“Exactly. I guess she’s mad at you,” Upendø responded, getting up from her woven chair; “let me go brief her.”

Khonzani nodded and waited for his hands to be washed.

Upendø had to knock on Milå’s bedroom door five times; Milå had already locked herself in her bedroom. A moment later, the key caught on the inside edge, and soon the door opened halfway to reveal Milå standing on the door frame in her creamy white pyjamas.

“Do you want to talk to me?” Milå asked, and sniffled.

“Why locking yourself inside; why going to bed when your parents are about to eat?” Upendø asked one question after another, forcing her way through.

Milå let go of a painful sigh as she paved the way. “I can’t sit on my hips because of your damaging lies,” she said ridiculously, “I need a nice sleep now not your food.”

“Alright, girl.” Upendø appeared unsympathetic as she collected iPhone 12 and laptop from the wardrobe. She turned around to Milå and advised: “I don’t want to see those bloody sanitary pads everywhere, clean up your room.”

“Cool, I’ll clean up my room. But why are you taking away my phone and laptop?” Milå asked.

“Your dad said you don’t deserve them,” Upendø replied in the corridor; “and you must come and wash your his hands and pray for the food. Understood, rude girl?”

Milå did not respond. She folded her arms instead. Her mother was heaping burning coals of anger on her head. This must be a long nightmare, she thought. She stood in front of her mirror, preparing to ditch the pyjamas. In the mirror, she mirrored her mother: her skin was like desert sand, she had pale pink lips, a pointed chin, heroic brown eyes, and a few freckles on her nose. The difference was that her mother was chubby, petite, slow to speak, and of an old-fashioned build (a woman of robes and headgears). Milå shook off her worry and went back to the dining room in her white church dress, soft for her painful body. She offered her prayer, poured warm water for her father’s hands, and poured pineapple juice into his glass—she did all this while standing on her feet, her bums denied a seat. Then she limped back to bed, ignoring their gaze.

“Don’t worry about her, she’ll grab something to eat when her stomach demands it,” Upendø said to a paused Khonzani.