I’m shaking under a mountain of thick, impermeable blankets.
“It’s here,” I mutter, rubbing my hands. “The Drakensberg winter has arrived.”
An aroma of roasted coffee beans comes floating like a violin’s serenade. Its source is indubitably the kitchen, where grandma the sorcerer works her magic. Now enveloped from the blankets, I quicken my step, following the sound of giggles.
“Sawubona mzukulu,” she takes me into her arms. The space is safe and warm. I refuse to break free. “Here,” she gives me love in a mug.
It heats the spot. It isn’t just coffee I’m sipping. It’s love.