It is scorching. Not a drop of rain has fallen from the sky in a long time. Dlamini rests on a chair in the shade of his house. The yellowish grass sways in the dry breeze. The winter we are having this year is a punishment, he thinks. The sun is hammering down on his exposed legs like bullets. In the dry air, grasshoppers chirp. Dlamini bends and slips his sandals off, allowing the warm grass to tickle his toes.

“Baba!” screams Mbali from the house, “Musa won’t let me watch the cartoons.” 

“Musa, let her be!” commands Dlamini.

Khulekani scoots out of the house with a chair and sits next to his father. He goes back in the house and then comes back to sit on the chair. He watches his father who wears a brimmed hat woven out of straw.

“Do you ever miss her?” asks Khulekani. 

Turning to his son, Dlamini discovers that the question, in some way, has caused the spit in his mouth to dry. He can barely speak. 

“I miss her so much,” says Khulekani, “Sometimes I think I see her; do you see her?”

Dlamini has been quiet about the loss of his wife for years now. I should not have gone to work that day, he thinks to himself. 

“I think I do,” says Dlamini with a raspy voice. He clears his throat.

“Oh, you see her too?” asks Khulekani, his face brightening.

“No, miss her, yes, I miss her always,” says Dlamini. His voice is now clear.

“But Baba you don’t talk about her… I mean I want to talk about her, I just don’t know who to talk to.” Khulekani licks his dry lips. 

Dlamini sighs and says nothing. He thinks back to the day before Cecilia had died. They had an argument about him going to work. He didn’t want to go, but she insisted. “If you don’t get to work, how are we going to feed the kids? I’ll be fine,” Cecilia had said. Dlamini, like any good husband, put on his overalls in the frosty morning, kissed his wife on the cheek, and went straight to work. 

I shouldn’t have been so kind to her, I should have said “No, I’ll stay, one day without work won’t cost us.” 

“What do you want me to say, Khule?” asks Dlamini, “Of course I miss your mother!” 

“It’s just that Mbali doesn’t know anything about her, we should say something to her,” says Khulekani.

Dlamini nods and says, “Of course.”

Mbali runs outside carrying Dlamini’s ringing phone. She almost trips,

“Baba! Baba! Someone is calling,” She hands the phone to Dlamini. 

“Hello,” says Dlamini.

Mbali asks, “Is it Mam’ Bongiwe? Tell her I said hi.”

“Mbukwa!” Dlamini stands up. 

“Yes, it is me, I know it’s been a long time since we’ve talked,” says Mbukwa.

“Yes, at the funeral, six years ago.” says Dlamini leaning on the hot wall of his house.

“Listen Sbari, this is not a social call,” Mbukwa clears his throat, “Cecilia is umm…not right, she’s crying and… I know this sounds crazy, but she is on fire.”

Dlamini keeps quiet, he wants Mbukwa to spit it out.

“I had a terrible dream yesterday, it’s a bad omen, bad! We must have a ceremony to plead with the ancestors to accept her, because they don’t…” 

“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” asks Dlamini. The line has gone dead. 

Dlamini clicks his tongue, and when he’s about to put the phone back into his pocket it rings again. 

“Hello?” 

There are static sounds. Dlamini looks up and sees that the sky is crisp and clear.

“Yes Sbari, it’s still me, I ran out of airtime, I’m using Jabu’s phone.”

Dlamini sighs and asks, “What do you want?”

“Hawu, didn’t you hear what I just said? We need to do something, otherwise there’ll be consequences.” Mbukwa clears his throat.