The late afternoon sun scorched the single tar road running the length of the sleepy country village of Klein Tuin. It was lined with a Super Store that sold everything from stationery to steaks, a community clinic, church, school, police station, hair salon, petrol station, car repair shop, and bottle store. Sprawling farmland surrounded the village. With a population of just 537, everyone knew everyone – including intimate details of their private lives.

On Kromstraat, the oldest of the many dusty dirt roads leading off the main road, Rose Ndima flung open the front door of her thatch-roofed house. It had been left to her by her parents. Her plump face stretched into a broad smile.

“Molweni, molweni,” her voice boomed to the back of the queue that started at her front door. “Wamkelekile ekhitshini likaMa Rose,” she welcomed everyone.

Her smile and greeting were as warm as on the first day she opened her kitchen, three years ago, to feed the community of Klein Tuin twice a day, six days a week. She fed the young, the old, lucky ones who found seasonal work on the farms or a sought-after job at a local business, and the nyaope kids. Even the rare stranger who passed through the quaint village – all were welcome at Ma Rose’s kitchen for breakfast, or a lunch box for school or work, and supper.

Rose had grown up in Klein Tuin. After she completed high school, she obtained a bursary to study towards a nursing diploma at a city college.

Her superiors at one of the biggest city hospitals were surprised when she retired her career 15 years before the usual age. They considered her one of the few passionate and compassionate nurses at the hospital. Her colleagues often teased her that she bewitched the patients: everyone loved her.

Rose was her frail parents’ only child. She returned to Klein Tuin and cared for them until their passing, four years later, and just seven months apart.

“Vandag we eat,” she continued as she rubbed her stomach. “Mogodu, marog, and pap.”

The usual clang of spoons, tin cups and plates rang through the air in response to Rose’s words.

Cynthia and Nomawethu were two young, single mothers whom Rose employed for her feeding scheme. They carried steaming pots from the kitchen to the trestle table set up just inside the front door.

Rose greeted each guest (that’s what she called the people she fed) by name, enquired about their health and family, and wished them well after serving them.

“Enkosi, Ma Rose. God bless you,” young and old thanked her.

On another table, to the right of the front door, they set up jugs of juice, flasks of coffee and tea. Everyone could help themselves after getting their food. Many strode homeward with their generous portion of food, while several often settled on one of the stackable chairs scattered around Rose’s front yard, and dug into their meal.

On a trip to the kitchen for another pot of spinach, Rose stopped in her tracks as someone rapped on the back door.

“En nou, Andile?” Rose responded with a smile, after she opened the door. “You know the food line is at the front door, young man.”

“Hawu, Mama Rosie, I know I know, mara …” Andile looked down and shuffled his feet. “Can’t I klap two birds with one stone?”

“Wena, ustout na?” Rose said as she pulled the youngster’s ear. “Everyone knows other business happens after midnight, at the back door. You are taking chances.”

“Hayini, Mama Rosie, asseblief maan, can’t you–”

“No exceptions, Andile. Hamba. Go get your food and come back tonight.”

 ***

Tell us: What might the ‘other business’ that happens after midnight be?