Dlamini is working away from home, at Sphingo Beach, later that year when Bongiwe  calls.

Mbali is sick to death, he says. Dlamini feels his eyes start to blur with tears

He packs everything he can carry and goes home to Amaoti. As soon as he arrives, he goes straight to Bongiwe’s.

“Mbali is dying,” says Bongiwe…

Mbali lies shivering on a mat beside a huge fire that Bongiwe started. She is cooking steamed bread (jeqe) with beans as curry, Mbali’s favourite. 

Dlamini gets to his feet and dashes to the dusty main road in Amaoti. He waits for a car to show up, so it can take Mbali to the clinic. He is relieved when a white sedan drives by, but when he tries to beckon the car,  it doesn’t stop. Dlamini kicks the dust. Another car comes, but it doesn’t stop. Another two cars come but still no luck. 

Bongiwe feels Mbali is getting worse and worse. As she kneels by her, feeling with her palm the wet, burning forehead, she prays a thousand times. Dlamini returns, walks in the fireplace and lifts Mbali onto his shoulder. 

“You found a car?” Bongiwe is sobbing. 

Dlamini shakes his head. “They won’t help me.”

Bongiwe gets up to her feet. “Where are you going?” she asks. 

“Somewhere else, come with me, take that mat,” commands Dlamini. 

They scurry along the hilly path to Zondo’s house. He is the oldest seer and traditional healer in Amaoti. The dogs bark fiercely when they arrive, but Dlamini has no energy to entertain them. 

Zondo walks out of his hut and calls them inside. 

“Say no more,” Zondo says as he draws his machete from under the low stool and hurries outside into the bush. 

He returns carrying a large bundle of grasses and leaves, roots and barks of medicinal trees and shrubs. He puts down his load and sits down. 

“Get me a pot, right there beside you,” says Zondo to Dlamini, “and leave the child alone.”

Dlamini passes the pot and Zondo selects what he needs from his bundle, and cuts them up. He puts them in the pot and asks Dlamini to pour in some water. 

“Is that enough?” Dlamini asks when he has poured in about half of the water in the bowl. 

“A little more… I said a little. Are you deaf?” Zondo roars at him. 

Zondo sets the pot on the fire and takes up his machete to go to his other hut. 

“You must watch the pot carefully,” says Zondo as he gets up, “and don’t allow it to boil over. If it does, its power will be gone.” He goes away to his other hut and Dlamini and Bongiwe begin to tend the medicine pot almost as if it is itself a sick child. Bongiwe’s eyes go constantly from Mbali to the boiling pot and back to Mbali. 

Zondo returns when he feels the medicine has cooked long enough. He looks it over and decides it is done. 

“Bring me a low stool for her,” says Zondo, “and that thick mat.”

Zondo removes the pot from the stove and positions it in front of the stool. He rouses Mbali and positions her on the stool, astride the steaming pot. The thick mat is draped across both of them. Mbali tries to flee the choking and overpowering steam, but Zondo restrains her. She begins to cry.

Mbali is drenched in sweat when the mat is finally removed. Zondo mops her with a piece of cloth hanging on the wall and lays her down on a dry mat, and Mbali falls asleep immediately.