Weeks passed since Nalubamba's phone call to Mwiya in Lusaka.
MaSimukonda's tone had shifted completely. She no longer pretended to be a guest. Instead, she gave orders as if she owned the homestead.
"Nalubamba, fetch the milk. The nshima must be ready before the children come from school," she commanded one afternoon.
Nalubamba's heart ached. She had welcomed this woman in the spirit of Tonga hospitality, but the visitor's attitude now felt like a storm invading her home.
As she obeyed, a thought kept repeating in her mind: Why did Mwiya not believe me?
That night, Nalubamba lay awake, listening to the soft hoot of an owl in the distance. She whispered a silent prayer to the ancestors for protection.