Him: Mama Ronald, whose kid is this?

Her: Which one?

Him: There is some kid here with dirty shoes

Her:  I don’t know any kids with dirty shoes. 

Ronald : Hi Daddy.

Him: Mama Ronald, the child is still here. It is talking but I don’t understand. It seems to think its father is somewhere here.

Ronald: Daddy, I can explain

Her: Is it yours?

Him: I tell you what it looks like?

Her: What does it look like?

Him: Filthy! I don’t even understand whether it is a child with mud on it or mud with a bit of child attached.

Ronald: Daddy, please.

Him: That can’t be my child. You know my children. They are clean and hygienic.

Her: Yeah. I know. We raise our children to know the value of being clean and tidy.

Ronald: You know what? Maybe just give me kiboko instead of this loud sarcasm tag team you are doing that the whole compound is eavesdropping on.

Him:  Oh my goodness! Mama Ronald! Did you hear that? It’s talking back!

Her: What?

Him: It said I am shouting loud sarcasm!

Ronald: Daddy!

Him: I don’t understand this animal.

Ronald: Just give me a chance to explain, please.

Him: It wants me to give it a chance to explain.

Her:  Do you have a chance to give it?

Him:  Let me see what is in my pockets. I have my keys, my wallet and my phone but I have nothing else here. No chances.

Ronald: Daddy, there was a strike at uni. You know how their strikes turn into riots that spill out of their campus and into the whole area. In no time there were riot police chasing campus students through our ka-small school. We had to flee. We had to run through the bushes and I fell in mud.

Him: What? A riot?

Ronald: Yeah. Students were striking about issues. Police even came with teargas and batons they we…

Her: Teargas and what? Oh no. My son, are you okay? Did they hurt you?

Ronald: No. I escaped. I run away.

Him: I can’t believe this. There are too many university riots and strikes.  My son, it seems that school is not safe for you. We should transfer you to some place far from universities.

Her: We should. We can’t let our sons near dangerous universities. 

Him: Yeah. Speaking of sons in plural. Where is your brother? 

Ronald: I don’t know. I lost him when I ran away.

Him: What? Mama Ronald. Is this your child? Whose child is this?

Ronald: Daddy, not again

Him: I know it’s not my child. The child I raised would never abandon his little brother in a riot. Mama Ronald, is this your child?

Her:  Mine? Mine can’t just leave his baby brother in a riot. I don’t know whose child this is…