“Tinin! Tinin, my boy!” Paja called in Qonga. Tinin, a skinny boy with bulging eyes and ears unfairly large for his narrow head shot out of the hut like a routed hare. “Aya, Papa.” Welcome, papa; he shouted as he rushed to Paja. First he took Paja’s old hunting gun, rested it on the mud wall of the hut, while Paja waited with the carcass of a gazelle which slouched around his neck. It gave him pleasure to watch the little boy unbundle him whenever he returned from hunting. He stood waiting. “Let me help you, Papa,” Tinin offered excitedly, even though he knew Paja could do it all by himself. They both enjoyed this moment. Paja stooped and allowed him ease the dead gazelle from his shoulders and together they dragged it to the fire place. It was at such moments that Paja secretly mourned his long dead wife. “Is it male or female, Papa?” Paja laughed crookedly, “my boy, it is a full grown male and you will have his ropopo.” Tinin laughed mischievously. That was one of the epit...