The fleshy Indian woman doing the yelling was at the supermarket counter, her head wrapped in a green sari, a set of gaudy bangles and chokers jangling as she shouted. The man her remonstrations were directed at was half-hidden behind a pile of boxes, pretending to dust something on a low shelf. Shoppers paused to stare at the scene, some clucking their disapproval, others suppressing their derision. It had become a staple of village gossip in recent days.
“Toto!” she called again.
The man took his time; he knew what she wanted. It was almost half past one, her time to feed the demon child. He walked over to the counter. The Indian woman was locking the cash register.
“Angalia customer, mimi iko enda lunch.”
She opened the metal door behind the shelf with electronics and batteries and disappeared into the back. The boy was already banging his…
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