My father died the kind of death that leaves everyone asking, what happened?

There is a deep sound that emanates from the grave whenever a lump of soil hits the coffin. A deep “du!” sound followed closely by heavy-rain like torrents on corrugated iron roof as the soil trickles down the side of the coffin.

My father died the kind of death that leaves everyone asking, “what happened?” when they heard the news of the demise.

When he died, I didn’t think much of him. He was just “my father”. I never attached any real attachment to the title.

I was out playing with Chastity and Charity, our neighbour’s identical twins, when Ezra, my elder brother, found me. I wasn’t ready to leave the game so he dragged me away by my arm.

“What is wrong with you?” I protested as he pulled me away.

“Father’s dead.” He announced letting go of my arm. Father’s dead. That statement should have had a larger impact on me. But it was like somebody was saying to me, “Our neighbour’s cow has gotten trapped in the barbed wire fence.”

So I said, “Do you want to join Chastity, Charity and me in the game?”

A modest number attended his funeral. Mother cried. And I wondered why. Father died. Oh. Cool. Can I get back to the game now? I was five.

And now I am driving three people to commit a robbery (possibly with violence) in Lavington, and one of them has a gun pointed to my ribs. With a simple squeeze of his finger, Jen will tell my child, ‘your father died before you were born’ and the child will say, ‘Oh. Cool. Can I get back to Nickelodeon now?’ because they won’t know anything about me. No emotional attachment to the title ‘father’.

Lavington. Everything is quieter here. You can hear the birds chirping on trees. There are high perimeter fences shielding villas from access. Us mere mortals are required to stay out. I imagine there are large German Shepherds somewhere in those compounds, ready to put down any intruders.

Guards in fading uniforms sit in tiny structures behind the metal gates, bored out of their minds. Watching as some kid from a neighbouring slum washes the cars and says ‘here Tommy’ to a straying puppy. I wonder why they think all puppies are called ‘Tommy’.

We drive to a gate ushering us into an estate and a guard, working so hard to bring a smile to his hardened face, walks to the car holding a large book in which I should fill out some details.

“Where are you going?” He asks, handing me the book through the window. The one armed gangster beside me has concealed his gun after warning me. ‘Remember, we know where to find your pregnant wife.’

Yes. I will not be engaging in any monkey business.

“Where are we going?” I ask the gangster beside me and a deep voice booms from the backseat. The impeccably dressed male seated behind me has a voice that would scare birds away from trees. All he has to do is try singing.

“Amir Khan’s.” The voice says and the guard seems satisfied. I imagine there aren’t that many Amir Khans in the estate.  He lets us through and into the target estate we enter.

My phone rings. Jen. I look at the one armed gangster beside me imagining that he is the boss. “It’s my wife.”

“Then you better answer.” He says with a sly smile. “She can give you more hell than I can. And I’m the man with a gun.”

But Jen hangs up before I can answer and a text from her follows shortly thereafter.

There is a blue gate straight ahead and the immaculately dressed lady in the backseat says, “We are here guys.”

Both she and the bass man beside her retrieve their guns and cork them simultaneously. I feel like I am in an action movie scene in a SWAT truck where everybody corks their guns all at once immediately before they disembark and run into a raid.

“You guys ready?” The one armed guy asks his colleagues looking at them over his shoulder.

“We have been ready for a long time now.” The lady answers smiling as I pull over beside the blue gate. I catch a glimpse of the text from my wife.

“My water broke.” It reads. “Hurry.”

And in my head I’m thinking, “Yeah baby I’m coming! I just have to commit a felony first.”