The blaze slithered at high speed from one shack to the next, like a greedy monster, selfishly consuming everything it touched. No-one died that night, at least not a physical death. We lost though, we lost the little we had: clothing, food, our crappy furniture. Our hope, strength, passion … for a while we lost ourselves in the fire.

We lost all but our names. I remember we still at least had our names and the police were passing around a list for everyone to write down who they were. ‘Gcina Nxumalo’ my mother wrote on the list. My name is Gcina – it means ‘to keep’. ‘Eunice Nxumalo’, my mother wrote her own name, right next to mine.

“Gcina. Yima apha close to me. Do not move. Uyandiva, Gcina?” My mother was in a panic, everyone was.

“Ewe Mama, ndiyakuva.” Mom and I and all our neighbours watched from a safe distance as the angry flames destroyed our homes.

The fire fighters were there, bargaining with the raging fire god, throwing gifts of water to ask for mercy, to calm and put him to sleep. I was disturbed at how something so beautiful could be so destructive and heartless. The flames were bright orange with hints of red and blue, the smoke was a deep grey with strong, and fading, shades of black – together it all looked like a living canvas. Trust me to see the art in something so tragic.

“Oh Thixo, sizakuyaphi ke ngoku?” Mam’ Lizzy was hysterical. My mother was trying to calm her down for the sake of Themba, her two-year-old son, who had no clue what was going on.

Ntate Oupa and his wife had their hands over their heads, Malume Vusi was sitting on the ground, and had his head buried between his knees. His daughter Nombulelo, who is also a very close friend of mine, was sitting next to him, expressionless. Sis’ Violet could not stop crying; she did not make a sound though. The tears just didn’t stop tumbling down her face.

The screams and cries of the residents of Ivory Park squatter camp were a symphony that night, of sorrowful tunes. The cloud of dark smoke that rose from the flames covered the township like a blanket of bad luck, that spoke of curses from the heavens.

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Tell us what you think: What does Gcina mean when she says ‘we lost ourselves in the fire’.