Just then this Hollywood heart-throb walks in. Grim. Beautiful. “What’s happening?”

The boy has his mother’s shine. His sister’s athleticism. He is taller than the smart silver Hisense fridge in the kitchen.

“The cat,” Nomhle says. “She’s cuckoo again.”

He glances towards the garage gates. “Has she been in there?”

Nomhle nods sombrely. No-one else sees the funny side of the psycho cat. Nomhle’s brother grabs the cat from inside the cupboard among the cups. He clamps her under his arm. He pats her head so she ducks, growls like a miniature lion.

I ask curiously, “What’s in that room that makes the cat so crazy?”

Nomhle’s brother halts in his tracks. Nomhle’s eyes pop out in a way that is most unflattering. They ignore my question. The beautiful brother bangs out to release the crazy cat into the front yard. The faint sound of singing and whistling and drumming drifts in from the street. Nomhle’s brother comes back inside, shuts out the sun.

“What’s that singing?” Nomhle asks.

I say, “They’re marching, I think. Something to do with drugs.”

Nomhle jerks straight. “Really?” Then she asks her mother urgently, “Does Tata know?”

Their mother shakes her head, tries to wring her hands from her wrists.

The smell in this house is making me feel itchy. I want to get out of here. Perhaps I can risk Nomhle having her ears talked off by my well-meaning auntie. “Listen, we’ve got nowhere with our planning and notes. Do you want to come and finish them at my place?”

The singing and drumming outside are getting louder. It is the sound of many feet stamping the earth of the township.

“Luzuko!” Nomhle shrieks. “Mommy!”

Luzuko takes off through the lounge, bangs on the gate to the garage. His father opens up, lets out more ammonia stink. I hear the sound of men’s voices in there, panic stricken. Nomhle and her mother race around the house, shutting windows, locking latches. My head is feeling woozy. I can hear my own breath.

The chanting outside gets louder. “uWe uza kubaleqa …” It seems to be coming from both sides of the house.

There is a violent crashing of metal against metal. It sounds like someone is beating the yellow garage door on the street side. Nomhle’s father charges out of the garage. Luzuko and the other three men dash after him, the whites of their eyes showing with terror. The man with the yellow nails locks the gate behind him.

Nomhle’s tiny mother almost picks me up by my armpits. “Best to go home, Phumza.” She pushes me towards the door with surprising strength, swings the kitchen door open.

There is a wall of people marching towards the house with whips and knobkerries. The huge man in front brandishes a big, blunt machete.

***

Tell us what you think: What is likely to happen next to the house?