It’s 3:22 am on dad’s phone. The phone that’s exactly like mine – well minus all the cracks. Dad didn’t make a habit of dropping his phone while checking out hot joggers’ buns. He was much too proper for that but cool with it. He did after all calmly walk away after meeting the friend that the daughter, he’d randomly bumped into on Kenyatta Avenue, was in town to meet. The friend that he’d leave his daughter with, with her “tutaonana home, dad” accompanying him. Did he give it another thought? Especially when that same daughter came home past 11pm, calm as you please? Did he wonder what took her so long? Was he up waiting for her, cleaning the proverbial shotgun because he had some daughter-defiler’s head to blow off? Or did he never give it another thought?
Just like years later his son might never have given much thought as to why his sister was holding her dead dad’s watch. The watch that she wanted to wear to her dad’s funeral. That she was holding while waiting for her other brother to fix it for her by making another hole so that it would fit her wrist when she wore it. For the brother told his siblings, “I think I’m going to wear dad’s watch to the funeral.” His siblings didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was already spoken for-for the day. And it never occurred to him. Why should it? He didn’t know that she thought of herself as the Companion to their dad’s The Doctor. That she hoped he’d somehow regenerate just like the other Time-Lords before him. That to her, the watch was the equivalent of a Sonic Screwdriver and that she needed it to face the day ahead. But maybe he needed it just as much.