Khethiwe and I climb into the front of the ambulance. We drive for a few kilometres in frightened silence.

Finally, I say, “Wow, Khethiwe.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I thought you were useless.”

“Me too.”

We laugh together. I dig my elbow into her ribs, say softly, “I’m sorry I’ve been so rude. I was jealous of you.”

“Huh?”

“Mom took you and left me.”

She stares at me like I’m crazy. Then she talks in my ear so Luyola can’t hear our private sister stuff.

“You know I only saw Mom once every three months. I was alone in that school among rich kids. And all I had to do was be nice, nice, nice. It was lonely Asanda. Mom used to say to me, ‘Be friendly, my girl. Don’t upset anyone. Don’t ruin this opportunity.’ I used to cry under my blankets at night. I used to wish I was with my umakhulu and my little sister.”

I stare at her. “Really?”

She nods. “The other parents came to fetch their daughters for weekends but Mama didn’t have money for the taxi.”

“What did you do?”

“Read books. I did my hair, practised my make-up. I talked to myself in the mirror.”

I giggle.

“I know,” she says sadly. “Very useful.”

“Well in Tzolo you’re a hero,” I tell her.

She smiles with slow delight.

“I saved Umakhulu’s life.”

I try to hug her but I my head digs into her chin.

She says, “I don’t want to go back to PE. I want to stay with you and Umakhulu and Ubawomkhulu.”

“What will you do?”

“Help with the goats and the bees.”

I stare down at her broken nails, black with charcoal. I turn her hands over to inspect her wounds. They already seem soothed.

While we are waiting in the hospital the rain comes down like tears that have been held back for too long. For three days it rains, and fills our river and our water tanks.

When it stops, Khethiwe works hard in my honey house with me. She scrapes the wax from the frames, sometimes with her nails, sometimes with my special knife. She helps me load the combs in the spinner and spin them so the honey drops from the wax pockets. We filter it to remove the solid bits and we pour it into bottles, glistening and golden. After that, we gently heat the wax to make beauty products for the hair and skin.

My big sister sweats next to me and sometimes doesn’t even bother with deodorant. She works so hard that she even forgets to smile. My big sister knows there is no need to be nice, but we both feel the joy filling up that little honey house.

***

Tell us: Did you know that beeswax is a healing substance, and is used in beauty products? Will the sisters make a success of their honey product business?