That was my father’s refrain when I was naughty. And I was a curious and hyperactive child. So, I received a lot of warnings. I was in grade two when it escalated. My father gave me a single 20 cent coin for daily pocket money. Always. It felt like a fortune. Until, I discovered that I could have much more, from a pile that was on my parents’ dresser. More precisely, I could take more. Without permission.

Hearing the unmistakable clank as I skipped to open the gate for him to drive me to school that morning, he addressed me by my full name. Andriata, come here. I knew then, kuti nyaya yacho yakora. Empty your pockets. There, in my tiny hands, lay more than 2 dollars-worth of 20 cent coins. Red hands.

Ndakarohwa ndikazvirega. For that was the goal. Kuzvirega. Today, more than 30 years later, I remember his exact words. Handina mwana mbavha. No child of mine will be a thief.

Methodical and calculated strikes to my young and supple buttocks. Never again. Bhasop. I wept. The first and last time he ever struck me.