The family of Rebecca Cheptegei has decided to have her buried.

After all, the cremation did come first, courtesy of old flame Dickson Ndiema.

There’s a joke in there screaming to get out, possibly relating to penises and bloated legs, but it will probably die of multiple organ failure before the first gargled giggle.

It might be a hot take, but I’m stumped at how your average Ugandan had trousered enough dosh for a gallon of unleaded? Much cheaper to have flogged her to death with a pair of fusty sandals.

So, while the rest of the world is slating the perpetrator for being a dirty dog, it was the Olympian who went woof.

Even worse, local kids popped marshmallows onto sticks, circling her and bursting into an impromptu Kumbaya.

The burning question, however, is what sparked it? Aside of course from the lighter that reduced her body to zippo. Why did that melt opt to off her? Yes, he may have had the hump with her on a personal level, but who sends a cash cow up in smoke?

Mind you, at the recent Paris Olympics, she came 44th in the marathon, so she was hardly a trailblazer.

That might have been the cue for the barbecue and what fuelled it.

But that khat isn’t going to buy itself, pal.

Still, the whole affair has ignited the motivation of ashen-faced, fiery feminists foraging for a foothold in the façade of femicide fantasy fuckery.

‘Rest in Power’ appears to be the clichéd epitaph du jour, but who knows what they’ll cook up next?

I’m guessing the concept of misogynist terrorism?