“Pack and go! Pack and go!”

The man in the house next door was shouting at his wife — the third time this week — and she rattled back profanities in high pitched Bemba. The first time we heard it, I was with my sister, Nomsa, and we’d giggled nonstop. Dad, after hearing what had transpired, went to speak to them the following day, but it didn’t really change things. It was amusing the first few times, but when you listen to the same thing every other day for four years, it tends to grow old.

The green gate slid open a crack and my Aunty Joyce slipped in before sliding it shut behind her. She was wearing her brown and gold chitenge suit, with a flamboyant headscarf to match. “A woman always needs to look beautiful,” she’d say.

My aunt was a beautiful woman: medium height, willowy and that fair complexion that was the envy of many. She was also very nice: polite, gracious and graceful; she was a “living doll” as my grandmother would say.

Aunty Joyce was never out of hugs and kisses and kind words for anyone. Since we were young, she’d called us her “angels”. She brought us fancy gifts from her conferences around the world and let us stay up past our bedtimes when Mum tried to send us to bed. Aunty Joyce lived in Kabwe with her husband, Uncle Peter, a pastor. They would often stay with us when their church conferences were in Lusaka, and sometimes we would go to their house during the school holidays. But these days, Aunty Joyce seemed to be having more and more church conferences that her husband, the pastor, was not attending.

“How are you my angel?” Her voice was warm as the day.

“Fine,” I replied. “Just hot.”

“It’s the Lord’s blessings upon us.” She made a fanning gesture with her dainty fingers and walked to the house. It was a wonder she did not break a sweat underneath those layers of material.

Decembers in Lusaka are hot.

I don’t remember it being this hot when I was younger. There was more rain then, I think.