Malon was our childhood dog — a real village legend. He was a mix between a fast African runner and a German black guard dog. Pitch black, strong, and full of mischief, he looked like a guard dog but behaved like a spoiled child.
Malon ate everything we ate — githeri, ugali, cow soldiers (hides), matumbo, and if he was lucky, even chicken. He didn’t care whether it was hot or cold, as long as it came from Mum’s kitchen. You’d see him sitting there, tongue out, waiting patiently like, “Haya basi, nipelekee share yangu.”
But Malon had one big problem — his bones. He loved hiding them in Mum’s shamba. One minute you’d see him gnawing a bone, the next he’d dash into the sukuma wiki, dig a hole, and bury it like treasure. Of course, in the process, he’d uproot half of Mum’s vegetables.
You can imagine the chaos.
“Malon! Toka kwa shamba yangu!” Mum would shout.
But Malon would just look at her, tail wagging, pretending to be innocent — soil all over his face like a guilty child.
And when he wasn’t causing drama in the shamba, he’d be lounging on Mum’s flower bed, legs stretched, looking so comfortable like he owned the place. Mum would chase him away, but five minutes later, he’d sneak right back.
We also used to go hunting with him in the fields. He was fast, clever, and full of energy. Sometimes he’d disappear into the bushes chasing birds or rabbits, then come back panting proudly — even if he caught nothing, he looked like a hero.
Of course, he never cared about being clean. After running around, he’d jump on you with muddy and dusty paws, leaving marks on your clothes. We didn’t even get angry — it was just Malon being Malon. All fun, no manners!
Malon was more than a pet — he was part of the family. Naughty, loyal, and always making us laugh. Even now, when I think of him, I can still see that shiny black fur, that wagging tail, and that look that said, “Life is for enjoying, bana.”
