Rose’s eyes fluttered open, then shut closed again. The stark white walls of the emergency room assaulted her eyes while the antiseptic odour of the hospital crawled up her nostrils. Her left hand itched and she reached over to scratch it. Her eyes flew open. Why do I have a needle in my hand? A drip?

The mob experience filtered through the hazy maze of her consciousness.

“Ma Rose …”

Her head whipped to the right at the sound of the voice.

“Doctor …”

He picked up the chart at the foot of her bed and checked her vitals. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been raked over coals.”

The doctor gave her a sharp look and she grinned.

“They didn’t smoke away my sense of humour.”

The doctor chuckled. “You’re going to be fine. Bloods showed everything’s in good working order. We had you on an oxygen mask because you experienced mild smoke inhalation.”

“I feel good. When can I go home?”

“Doctors and nurses make the worst patients.” The doctor clicked his tongue. “You can leave as soon as someone arrives to escort you home. I don’t have to tell you to get plenty of rest and sleep. Prop up your head on pillows to help you breathe and–”

“I know, doctor. I know what to do.”

“Very well. Then I’m prescribing a bronchodilator to make breathing easier, when you need it.” He made a note in her file. “If you cough up yellow, dark brown, or bloody mucous, please come back immediately. I mean it Rose Ndima. Immediately. In the meantime, Detective Langa is here and needs to talk to you.”

Rose lifted herself into a sitting position as the detective entered.

“Morning, Ma Rose. Unjani?”

“Ewe, detective. I’m all good. I need to get home. My guests. Their food …”

“Right after I’ve asked you a few questions. This whole business smells funny.” Detective Langa flipped open a notebook and clicked his pen.

“Firstly, why do you think people are saying you’re a witch?”

Rose could not stop the guffaw that erupted from her mouth; followed by a bout of coughing. She took a sip of water from the mug by her bed. “Sorry about that. Must be because I do the after-midnight routine. You know, the witching hour.”

Detective Langa shook his head. “Why not during the day or early evening?”

“Well, you know I run my feeding scheme. There’s cooking and serving during the day. Preparation for the next day after that. Then I take a nap. And in a town of busy-bodies, most people can do their private business in private at that hour.”

Detective Langa scribbled notes as Rose talked. “And the pills and potions? What are in those?”

“Not bones. Of any kind. Ask the pharmacist, Jama Tshabalala, to check it out.”

“I’ll arrange for him to collect all your specimens immediately.” Detective Langa massaged his temples. He recognised the signs of a headache. Too little sleep. “Where does the money come from, Miss Ndima? For the food, paying the people who help you, full bursaries you sponsor. And don’t tell me from your retirement fund. Under new laws, you don’t get the full amount when you retire.”

Rose fidgeted with the bed covers. “I … I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret.”

Detective Langa sighed. “I’ll be escorting Jama when he collects your stash later. Hopefully you will have changed your mind by then.”

 ***

Tell us what you think: Should Rose go back to her home? Would you, after such a near-death experience?