My day at school was a blur. My thoughts were distracted by the night’s dream, making it hard to concentrate. I even got thrown out of Physics class and threatened with expulsion for not paying attention.

“I promise it won’t happen again, Principal Mthembu,” I said, averting my gaze and shrinking myself to appear remorseful.

The truth is I couldn’t keep that promise. This always happened when I had the dreams. I’d be exhausted and distracted the next day, struggling to adjust to real life. Then they’d call my mother in and suggest that I be taken to a vocational school, claiming that I was unable to cope with academics. My mother would have a fit.

“Are you calling my daughter stupid, Mr Mthembu?” she would demand, arms akimbo and ready for a fight.

Everyone who knew Phindile Khumalo knew that she didn’t start a fight she couldn’t finish. The principal was no exception, having borne the brunt of her wrath a few times too many. Embarrassed, I would beg her to calm down, which would only fuel her anger further.

We walked home in silence that day. My mother bought vegetables from a vendor and, without a word, gave some to me to help carry. As we passed the blue and white church building on our way home, the sound of a thumping drumbeat and hands clapping in unison made my legs twitch and my heart beat fast.

Three women, dressed in white capes, doeks and matching frocks, passed us. The eldest amongst them greeted my mother. She looked at me awhile and sighed. Her eyes were pools of sorrow. Something about her felt familiar, though I was certain I’d never met her.

“Take care of this one,” she said, pointing her index finger in my direction.

“Of course,” my mother responded, sneering. “What mother would neglect her teenage daughter, as dangerous as the world is nowadays?”

“I don’t think you understand. She’s not like other—”

My mother didn’t even let her finish. She hurrumped indignantly and told the woman that she should save her voice because she didn’t believe in ‘any of that nonsense’. Dismayed, the old woman sucked her teeth and walked into the church building, shaking her head from side to side. I watched her disappear through the brown doors.

“Silly busybody. Those goody-two-shoes types are always sticking their noses in other people’s business. Mnxim!” said my mother, throwing her hand in the air as if to swat a fly.

I wanted to tell her that the woman didn’t mean any harm. Yet I knew that she’d misinterpret that as disrespect – me being ‘too big for my shoes’ and telling her what to think – so I kept quiet.

Supper was a bland chicken liver stew with pap and cabbage.

There had to be a way to broach the subject. She’d seen the inflamed marks and bruises on my skin when she woke me up that morning. She even made me a cup of sugar water to calm my palpitations.

“The dreams are back again,” I started.

She looked straight ahead and pretended to be reading something important on her phone.

“I’d have died if it wasn’t for Gogo—” I said, stopped abruptly by the dagger look she shot me.

“She filled your head with that rubbish, died and went to hell. Now I must deal with the overactive imagination she passed on to you,” she said.

I gasped. Her words shot through my chest and stabbed my heart. The burn in my chest was unbearable. It took everything for me not to scream at her and pummel her with my fists. How dare she speak that way of my father’s late mother? Gogo was the only person who ever treated me like I was normal.

She taught me how to speak to my ancestors too, which my mother forbade. There would be no mpepho and candle burning in her house, she’d warned, accusing Gogo of getting me involved in witchcraft. Unfased, Gogo showed me how to connect with my ancestors in the mountains and at the ocean instead.

“All you need to do is chant their names, make your request and they will help you,” she once told me. It felt like a confirmation when I passed a difficult exam I hadn’t studied for on the following day.

With her gone, nobody understood me. There was nobody to hug me and tell me I would be okay. Seeing her in my dreams was cool, but I needed her here. Needed to smell the camphor cream on her skin, see her toothless grin and feel the worn leather texture of her calloused hands against my face.

“I’m going to bed,” I told my mother, who stared ahead with her jaw clenched and her shoulders balled up.

Tell us: What do you think of how her mother treats Senzi?