“Go and fetch milk”. That’s a dreaded statement on a fun-filled evening with a lot of playing, teasing and dark humor at home with your siblings and maybe friends.

You know, while growing up in the village, we never used the packet milk. Your folks could have a standing order of milk purchase from a neighbor who has lactating cows. This milk would be fetched mainly in the evening so that you use for breakfast.

For some reason, that neighbor could only milk the cows late in the evening about 7.00 o’clock. Which means that you could be walking back home while it was dark. Worse still, it might rain, or she may have come late from the farm or the market and you would have to wait, and then walk back home, alone and in darkness! Scary time those ones.

Interestingly most of these homes had very mean looking dogs called Tom or Simba. Whenever you visit them with your mom, that Simba would be calm, just moving or sitting around your neighbor’s feet coyly as she chats (the said neighbor not the dog) with your mom. Very calm. No signs of aggression at all. Doesn’t even wag it’s tail or show its teeth.

At home, we had rotating duties of fetching the milk from the said neighbor.

So today it’s your duty to go and fetch milk.

At about 6.30 in the evening, you grab your bottle and off you go to fetch milk. You get to your neighbors and call out; Jimmy! Mwendwa! Gakii! Murimi!– the neighbors children.

No answer. You make your way through the gate that is about 200metres away from the kitchen where, mostly everybody is. The compound is expanse, dotted with mango, orange, guava trees. You look around, it looks safe. You slowly make your way to the kitchen which is hidden behind the main house.

At the middle of your trespass, you see Simba lying at the corner of the main house, eyeing you suspiciously while feigning indifference. You think of calling the neighbors children again, but you figure out that you might disturb Simba’s peace and provoke him to anger. Who knows the mood it is in today? Maybe the kids decided to eat the ugali crust (mukurwa) that is only reserved for Simba. Maybe, that chick it had been eyeing in the neighborhood dumped him for the new German Shepherd in the hood. Maybe the squirrel that it had caught earlier was snatched by a rival dog in the hood. Or that mongoose it ate caused him heart burn or constipation or whatever. Maybe.

You will never know. Because the look it’s giving you doesn’t suggest any pre-meditated attack.

Against your better judgement, you make your way towards the kitchen on your toe tips while your eyes are trained on the dog. It is still eyeing you. You can’t tell the emotion in its eyes but you can see it’s ears rise an inch. And because you are not a dog-mind-reader, you trudge forward.

No sooner are you almost a metre away that Simba jumps at you with a barking that screams trouble.

At that point, it’s you, your feet and your God.

Fight or flight!

Adrenaline takes over.

You take a run. No. You sprint. Screaming!

But Simba hasn’t eaten today, it’s no constipated either, so you can’t outrun him. You dodge it’s sneering teeth once, it’s claws twice and you realize the saving grace has to be on air!

Meanwhile, the neighbor is calling Simba to stop from the kitchen, “Simba stop”, you hear her say, not any bit in a hurry to reign in on their canine, as if you are not fighting for your own life at the mercy of their ranging rascal.

Pumped with adrenaline, before you know it, you are on top of the orange tree (thorns not withstanding) panting like you have escaped from Lucifer himself.

And that’s how you learn that you can compete against Omanyala in the 100metres sprint! And you can climb a tree faster than a snake on fire.