The meeting point is less than five hundred metres from the house where Zandile was born. Her mother, grandmother and uncles sent her to buy from the same spaza shop, where the missing girl’s family now waits for her.

She finds them standing by anxiously. Zandile does not need to be told that the young woman with an expression of complete devastation on her face is the missing girl’s mother. She doesn’t look older than twenty-five.

“Leave your car here because the road going down is rough. A 4×4 got stuck here on Christmas day. It had to be pulled out by a tow truck,” says a man, who then introduces himself as the missing girl’s uncle.

Zandile locks the police van door and follows the family on foot in the humid heat.

The way down is steep, and reveals a whole section of shacks. A decade ago, when Zandile’s family relocated to a better part of the township, the area where the many shacks of Mosko now stand was a forest. Now it’s mostly shacks, but a few small houses are built with concrete blocks, and a few RDP houses are under construction as well.

“They are doing away with shacks. In two years the whole of Mosko will be these RDP houses you see over there. They are the free housing the government promised,” says the missing girl’s uncle, wiping his sweaty neck with a towel.

“That is good. Some promises are kept at least,” says Zandile.

“You would think everyone would be happy but there are complaints already. People are saying the RDP houses are too small,” says the uncle.

“They are too small. They don’t even have toilets in them. I hear we will have communal toilets and showers. I just don’t know …” says the girl’s mother, in what is almost a whisper.

Being the festive season, the sound systems of Mosko blare out the in songs of summer. To this soundtrack walk the people of Mosko. A family in church uniforms struggles with luggage up the steep path. Church trip, Zandile thinks. Behind the church-going folks follows a group of rowdy youths who sip from liquor bottles and look ahead with bloodshot, empty eyes.

Zandile is amazed once again at how life in the shack section functions. They pass a tuck shop that sells everything a home needs, even prepaid electricity recharges. An old man is deep in thought as he fills out lotto tickets. The few houses built with concrete blocks have aluminium doors and window frames. Most of the shacks and houses have DSTV – satellite dishes point out to sea. The quality of the sound coming out of many shacks tells of expensive music systems.

They carry on down, past open doors that reveal the biggest of flat screen televisions.

“I am already late, I have to get going. Keep me posted, my sister,” says the uncle, hurrying into a shack neighbouring the small house that they have reached.

“Thank you, my brother, I will,” says the girl’s mother as she opens the door to her house.

Zandile and the missing girl’s mother have just settled on sofas when the uncle waves from the door. He is off to his job as a security guard.

“He is very learned, you know,” says the girl’s mother. “He has a diploma in business management. But there are no jobs so he took the one he got. The hours he works are terrible but what can one do? We have mouths to feed.”

She casts her gaze upon the three children in front of her. “Those two are his,” she says and points to two young boys sitting on the sofa opposite Zandile. “I have two girls. We are orphans, my sister. We have been looking after each other since he was twelve and I was eight. And now this has happened,” she says, looking into the distance.

She is quiet for a while as tears well in her eyes. “Can I get you anything to drink? There is Coke in the fridge.” She tries her best to stay present but her mind is somewhere else, wondering every second what is happening to her daughter.

“Cold water will be fine,” says Zandile. She smiles at the younger children, who look at her with childish curiosity, but they reciprocate with eyes full of sadness.

Zandile looks at the photos above the TV. There are pictures of a young girl holding certificates for academic excellence. And photos of the same girl with several running medals draped around her neck. There is another photo with all four children smiling at the camera. Two boys and two girls.

So the missing girl is clever, and fast, she thinks.

“Do you have children, Detective?” asks the girl’s mother from the kitchenette.

“My boy is seven, my little princess is four years old.”

“I also wanted a boy but was only blessed with girls. Here is your water. I hope it’s not too cold. ” Zandile sips and proclaims the temperature just fine for this weather.

“OK, let’s start. What is your name?” asks Zandile, notepad and pen in hand.

The girl’s mother exhales and says, “Dudu Khumalo.”

“Your girl’s name?”

“Philasande Edith Zulu. She uses her father’s surname.”

***

Tell us: Would you find it interesting being a detective, dealing with cases like this?