Prologue
The Zimbabwean flag drapes the coffin like a final salute. On top, there is a beret, a belt, an army badge; Soldiers in camouflage stand rigid, boots pressed into the red earth of Batanani village, in Plumtree. A three-gun salute cracks the air. Smoke curls. The scent of gunpowder lingers, sharp, metallic, final.
Villagers ululate. Not in sorrow, but in celebration. A hero has fallen. In a place like this, such a burial is rare, it’s a spectacle of honour.
But for Linda, it is not a spectacle. It is annihilation. She collapses with a shriek that rips through the gathered crowd, a raw, soul-shattering scream, a sound of a mother losing her firstborn. Two women grip her arms, lowering her to the ground as she wails, calling her son’s name over and over; “Butholezwe! Butho!”
The singers fall silent. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. Her cries are the only voice the grave hears.
To the soldiers, this is routine, a brother laid to rest, another name added to the roll. But to Linda, this is her son. Her first fruit. The boy who once clung to her skirts, now sealed in wood in front of her.
Beside her, Siphokazi sits heavily pregnant, a thin blanket draped over her shoulders. She nudges the woman supporting her.
“It’s hot,” she whispers, voice edged with irritation. “Can’t you take this off?”
“Not now,” the woman murmurs. “Not until they start filling the grave.”
“Then tell them to hurry up. I’m pregnant. I’m not supposed to be burning like this.”
The woman presses her lips together and looks away.
Across the grave, where men stand in stiff rows, Velaphi bites his lower lip until it bleeds. His wife’s screams tear through him. He aches to go to heart o hold her, to sob with her, but his shoulders stay squared, his head bowed. A man does not cry. That’s what his father taught him. So, he stands, hollowed out, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his heart bleeding in silence.
When Linda’s cries finally subside, the pastor steps forward.
“Job 1 : 21 says ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, ad naked I shall return there. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.’ We are gathered here today in loving memory of one who was brave enough to give his life, his all, so that those he loved might remain safe and free. Go well, Butholezwe Ndlovu. You will never be forgotten.”
He gestures to the family. “Now, if there are final words… or rituals… you may perform them.”
As Siphokazi is helped to the grave’s edge, the men turn as one, facing away. Two women help lower Siphokazi onto the dirt, sitting on her plain butt. She drags soil toward the hole three times with her but then rises without a word.
Afterwards, the pastor holds a shovel full of soil. Velaphi goes first. He scoops earth with his left hand, lets it fall in a slow, trembling shower onto the coffin. He murmurs something too low to hear. Stares. Then turns and walks back, shoulders slumped like a man carrying the sky.
Linda steps forward next. Tears, snot, sweat all mix on her chin as she flings soil into the grave.
“Uya kundisiya mukadzi wako a le nhumbu le…” Her voice breaks. “You couldn’t even fight? You welcomed death with open arms, leaving me with your wife and an unborn child?” She chokes. “What will I tell this baby? Couldn’t you wait? Just long enough to hold him? What kind of coward were you, son?” Her voice rises, sharp with betrayal. “I’ll never forgive you. Rest in peace but may you always look back and see what you left behind. You broke my heart.”
She stumbles back to her place.
Siphokazi steps up. With her left hand, nails painted, steady she flicks a handful of soil into the grave.
“Goodbye, baby,” she says, voice light, almost singsong. “Rest in peace. I’ll always love you from the grave.” She blows two exaggerated kisses. “Mncwa mncwaaa.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Disapproval. Shock.
Siphokazi rolls her eyes, shrugs off the women holding her arms, and crosses her arms over her swollen belly, standing front and centre as if posing for a photograph.
As the first shovelful of earth hits the coffin, Linda crumples. Grief floods her veins. She faints. Church women rush to lift her.
“Limkhiphe ipanty atshayelwe ngumoya (remove her underwear so she gets some fresh air)!” Siphokazi calls after them, loud enough for all to hear.
Giggles. Gasps. Whispers. But Siphokazi just smooths her hair and looks away, as if she hasn’t said anything wrong at all.
Later, after flowers are laid and hands are washed in aloe-infused water at the gate, mourners drift toward the homestead for food.
Inside the house where Butholezwe’s coffin lay all night, Linda sits on a thin mattress against the wall, her body heavy with absence. She’s seen other mothers bury children but never imagined she’d join their ranks. Never thought this pain would knock on her door.
And now, a pregnant widow, a five-year-old granddaughter. No income. No husband. Just her, left holding the pieces.
“Where is Siphokazi?” she asks as people trickle in from the graveside.
“She’s in the army car,” says Elihle, shifting her niece on her hip. “Talking to the soldiers.” She gently places the child down. “Go to your grandmother.”
Linda blinks back fresh tears. Forces a smile.
“Come, baby girl. Buya kukubo. (Come to your grandmother).”
Little Sinenhlanhla hesitates, then walks slowly into her grandmother’s open arms. Linda pats her lap. The child climbs up. And though the girl doesn’t cry, Linda rocks her back and forth, back and forth her eyes fixed on the child’s face. The same eyes. The same smile and big forehead. The ghost of her son, alive in this small body.
She wonders what she will tell her when she asks about her father.
“Lihle,” Linda says softly, “go check on your brother’s wife please.”
“She’s fine, Mom. I don’t want to interrupt their private conversation.”
“Those are your brother’s comrades. They’re surely offering condolences.”
“Condolences?” Lihle scoffs. “Didn’t look like condolences to me. Sipho doesn’t need any condolences. Girl is laughing and___”
“Lihle!” Linda snaps. “Not now. Not when my son’s body hasn’t even begun to rot.”
Lihle leaves without another word.
Minutes later, Siphokazi strides in carrying a six-pack of Hunter’s Dry. She drops onto the floor, claps twice, and announces to the room:
“Ngaze ngaba ngumfelokazi ngimncane bo. (I’m a widow now and look how young I am).”
Silence. Then stares. At the beer. At her. At the sheer audacity of her calm.
“Are you allowed to drink in your condition?” a woman finally asks.
“After Tears,” Siphokazi says, popping a can open. “It’s a thing. You celebrate the dead because they’re gone and never coming back. Ever.” She downs half the can in one gulp, sighs with satisfaction. “Besides, it’s just cider. Won’t hurt the baby.”
“I’ve never heard of ‘After Tears,’ here in the village,” the woman says, frowning.
“Hayi ke!” Siphokazi laughs. “Then you’re missing out.”
She wipes her mouth. “I’m hoping the soldiers give me a lift back to Bulawayo.”
Linda’s eyes widen. “Today? You’re leaving today?”
“Yes, Mom. It’s hot here. I’m pregnant. Staring at his grave won’t bring him back and it might mess with my peace. My mom said I can stay with her while I soothe my heart.”
“Your mother agreed?” Linda’s voice trembles. “She lost a son-in-law! She should be here, mourning with us! Is this how you do things in your culture?”
“We don’t do culture,” Siphokazi says calmly, taking another sip. “We’re modern. Born and bred in Bulawayo.”
“Modern or not, you’re married here and you are now of our culture. And here, we mourn. For two days, you sit. We cleanse you. We honour him. You don’t just walk away.”
“Cleansing?” Siphokazi wrinkles her nose. “Like that dirt ritual at the grave? No thanks. My butt hole is full of soil as we speak. I need to bath.”
The room freezes. Linda closes her eyes. Breathes. Opens them.
“Fine. Go. If that’s what you need.”
“No, Linda!” an elder protests. “She can’t leave! What will people say? She must stay at least a week. People are still coming to comfort her; they must find her here.”
“I can’t force her,” Linda says quietly. “We mourn differently. Maybe she heals better far from this place. I won’t chain her grief to mine.” She stands. “I’ll tell my husband you’re leaving.”
“Thank you,” Siphokazi says, not looking up. “Because even if I stay, he’s not waking up. He’s dead. Life goes on. My life can’t stop just because Butho did.”
“We know he’s not coming back,” Linda snaps, voice cracking. “But you don’t have to rub salt in my wound. Go. But you’re leaving my grandchild behind.”
“I’m taking Nhlanhla,” Siphokazi says flatly. “She needs fresh air. Not this graveyard atmosphere. It’s not healthy for her.”
Linda raises her hands in mock surrender.
“You know what? Do what you want, Siphokazi. Take the child. Take the grave. Take everything. Just let me mourn my son in peace.”
Siphokazi doesn’t answer. She finishes her can, crushes it in her fist, and says, “Did you see the boys that the barracks released though? The one who was doing the gun salute, Dzammn! Boy is fire! I wouldn’t mind being touched by those hands honestly.”
Linda walks out in tears and heads to her bedroom. She shuts the door behind her and picks up a framed photo of Butholezwe. She stares at it and whispers, “I don’t have the strength to fight at the moment. But if I let your kids go, promise me you will bring the back one day.”
Twenty years later…
CHAPTER ONE
SINENHLANHLA
The heat is unbearable. I’ve been slumped in this chair for hours, squinting at the computer screen trying to locate the missing five rand. Being a bookkeeper in a rural school means you account for every cent or else you will get accused of stealing fifty cents and building a two- bedroom house with it.
I’ve worked here in Kezi high school for five years. I don’t have diploma or certificate. Just numbers, a keyboard and the fact that I don’t complain when the headmaster, Mr Khabo ‘borrows’ petty cash and forgets to log it.
“Nhlanhla!” His voice booms from down the hall.
I roll my eyes. I told him I will update him when the books have balanced. I’m still tracking the missing five rands and I already know who took it.
“Nhlanhla!” Louder this time.
“Sir?” I call back, still typing.
“Come here, please.”
I shut my eyes for five seconds and take a deep breath before heading to his office, two doors down.
Chimney, his real name is Gilbert, is sitting in front of the headmaster, drenched in sweat like he just sprinted from the other side of the village. We call him Chimney because the man’s always puffing that cigarette, even in the middle of the night. He is our neighbour.
My heart skips a bit. Last week, with the bad influence of my young sister Kayise, we poisoned his goats. They kept eating our vegetables. We fed them sorghum, then water. Four died of constipation. He gave us the meat unaware we had a hand in their death. I hope he is not here because of the goats, I will deny knowing what a goat is.
I sit beside him, eyes on the floor. “Hello,” I mutter, waving half-heartedly. Then to Mr Khabo, “I’m not done with the books yet. As soon as I—”
“That’s not why I called you,” he cuts in. “Gilbert is here to see you.”
My heart screeches to a halt. I’m now convinced it’s about the goats.
But then Chimney speaks, “Your house, Sne… it’s burning.”
I blink. “Which house?”
“Yours. The one at the corner.”
“No.” The word slips out like a reflex.
“Yes.”
My knees don’t just weaken, they vanish. The air leaves my chest. I can’t breathe or speak. Tears spill before I even understand why. For a moment, I’m nailed to the chair, mouth open, voice gone.
When it finally returns, it’s thin, like I’m in a deep hole. “Did… did anyone put it out?”
He shakes his head. “Flames took it fast.”
I turn to Mr. Khabo like he holds answers. He just sighs. “Maybe you should go see for yourself.”
I nod and rise from the chair. “Let’s go.”
As we reach the door, Mr. Khabo calls me back. “Wait take someone with you. For support.”
Firefighters would’ve been better, I think bitterly. But this is Kezi rural. We don’t have fire trucks. We have neighbours and buckets.
“Who?” I ask, already knowing. Only two people here actually care about me, Gift and Olay.
He heads to the staffroom and returns moments later with them in tow.
“What’s wrong?” Gift asks, eyes scanning my face.
I jerk my chin toward Chimney. “Ask him.”
Instead of explaining what really happened, Chimney says, “You’ll find me at home,” and walks off as if saying he is already done with his duty. I grab my handbag, lock my office and we set off. I’ve walked this path twice a day since I was a student at Kezi High. Today, for the first time, the one kilometre feels endless.
“What started it?” Olay asks, striding ahead.
“Kids playing with matches probably,” Gift guesses.
I say nothing. My mind’s already at the wreckage. Did the roof collapse? Are the walls still standing? What about my O’ level certificates? The bed I saved three months’ salary for?
“Nhlanhla, what do you think started the fire,” Olay presses.
“How would I know?” My voice snaps sharper than I mean it to. I soften instantly. “I was at work. Just like you.”
They exchange a look. I don’t care. I appreciate them coming because unlike most teachers here who sneer at me for being ‘just’ a bookkeeper hired by the school committee, not the ministry, these two never make me feel small. Unfortunately, right now, I don’t want chatter. I just want silence.
Smoke stains the sky. Thick and dark. A few people are gathered under the tree in front of our yard. They are not even having buckets of water. I wonder if they ever tried to take out the fire. by the look of things they just came here and enjoyed watching a house burn. As we approach, the roof caves in with a groan, metal buckling, glass popping like firecrackers.
It’s not just a house burning. It’s my life.
“Did anyone get anything out?” I ask, voice hollow.
Chimney lights a cigarette. “It was too late. I saw smoke coming out, by the time I came here, the whole house was engulfed. Did you leave any burning candle this morning?”
“No candles were lit this morning,” I say quickly. “We don’t even have candles.”
“Where’s Kayise?”
I shrug. “Out doing someone’s hair, probably.”
I’m in disbelief. I finished paying the builders last week. Now it’s all gone. I drag myself into the yard. Gift and Olay flank me like guards. The heat hits my face, stinging my eyes, but I don’t move.
“This is bad,” Gift says quietly. “I’m sorry, Nhlanhla but there’s nothing left to save.”
“How do I start over?” My voice cracks. “Years of saving. All gone in ten minutes.”
Olay puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”
“Okay how? Where do I sleep tonight? What do I wear tomorrow?”
He doesn’t answer. Just shrugs. Because he knows, there is no answer. I stand frozen, wrapped in a dozen of emotions that paralyse me. I can’t move or speak. I still feel like a dream, that someone will wake me up and end it all.
A wail comes from the back gate startling me. It’s Kayise. She enters the kitchen and comes out with a bucket, screaming, “Help us! Please—put out the fire!”
“Kayise, stop!” Gift shouts.
She doesn’t listen. She charges toward the flames. Gift grabs her before she reaches the house.
“Let me go! My money’s in there! Under the mattress!” she shrieks, thrashing.
“Money isn’t worth your life!”
“Ten thousand rands is!”
I freeze. “Ten thousand?”
She glares at me, breathless. “I’ve been saving since January.”
All this time while I patched shoes and couldn’t buy myself lunch like other kids, she had 10K hidden?
Rage floods me, hot and clean. “You watched me struggle while you hoarded money under your mattress. You live off me, Kayise and you never said a word about savings.”
She sobs. “It was my money!”
“Your money?” I laugh dryly as my temper simmers. “Fine. Go ahead. Run in. Burn with it. Maybe your fat will drip and we can finally have a smell of braai in the air.”
Gift shoots me a warning look. But when Kayise keeps fighting, he lets her go. She takes two steps, and turns. I cross my arms as anger consumes me. I understand her pain but her sheer audacity of staying with me pretending to be broke while she had a five figure under the mattress pisses me off. A part of me is happy the money went up in flames. Let her be broke like me. Saves her right for hiding money while I’m taking care of her like her parent. If she wants to burn like her money, she can go I don’t care.
She drops the bucket and sinks to her knees. She cries, not dramatically this time but with the quiet devastation. Tears fall unrestrained.
Olay pulls me into a hug. “We have to go, Nhlanhla.”
I nod. But I can’t feel anything. It’s like I’m watching this happen to someone else. When they leave, I walk over to Kayise. My little sister. Orphaned like me. Broken like me. I kneel and wrap my arms around her. The ground is scorching but I don’t feel it. I allow myself to feel her pain and I feel mine as well. We cry together. I know I’m supposed to be strong for her, like always but I’m failing. How do I become strong when my whole life has just turned into smoke?
A warm liquid trickles down my thighs. I close my eyes. Perfect timing menstrual period. I don’t have pads or money.
I take out my phone and dial Sibongile, my grandmother. It goes to voicemail. She and Grandfather left two weeks ago for Bulawayo to collect rent. They do this every month, vanish for two weeks and come back with a few groceries. We moved from Bulawayo to Khezi ten years ago because they wanted “roots.” In reality it’s as if they wanted to build a rural home for Kayise and me.
My thumb hovers over Siphokazi’s contact. I haven’t spoken to her since our last fight. It was ugly, like all the others. I press call.
She answers on the first ring,
“Hey Nhlanhla.”
“The house burned down,” I say, voice breaking.
“The one I built for Mom and Dad? Oh my God, are my sofas okay?”
“My house. The one I built.”
“If you want money, I don’t have any. If you want to come and stay with my husband and me, the answer is no, Sinenhlanhla.”
“Mom that’s not why I called. I was___
“No ntombazana, I know you. What do you want then? Pity?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Never mind. Calling you was a mistake.”
I end the call and wipe my face. I’m on my own like always. No one is coming to save me, us.
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