Time is running out. Mom and bro are probably on their way back. This lady here is taking her sweet ass time. The gents are crowded right next to the gate and my right ear couldn’t help but to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Hai mara, Sifiso brah, this cough is getting worse. I was sweating the whole of last night, temperature on and off my gazi. I mean if Med-Lemon didn’t work, then someone obviously wants me dead,” the one guy says to the other.

“Eish ja my gazi, I feel your pain,” Sifiso responds.

“I remember my old timer, he also died from a cold. The doctors tried their best, maar fokol. Went to bab’ VusiMuzi, threw the bones and there it was … die hele waar.”

The third guy, who seems rather irritated, interjects, “Let me guess, someone gave him a cold and killed him because he was jealous of him?”

“Exactly that! They say this ou mos gave my timer pneumonia of iets.”

“There you go again! You two with your witchcraft stories! He made me sick, she made me sick, he wants me dead, he’s jealous of me! Arg just go to the doctor already!” he says and bangs the door with his hand.

“Before we went to the party this past weekend I told you ouens to take a jersey or something to wear on top! I told you it was going to get poes cold. Any party animal knows that it gets cold at midnight. Maar nah, ouens is mos ignorant! Check now you’re sick and you’re blaming an innocent somebody!”

“Hai mara Steve, los my, my gazi. You’ll never know if you’re sick or bewitched here in the kasi.”

Whew, she’s finally back with my ‘red and white Colgate’.

I run home as fast as I can. Forget that I’m carrying glass bottles! But if Mom gets home before I do and sees me with beers, there’s going to be unnecessary tension in the house and I hate that.

I’m running as fast as I can, almost like Usain Bolt, jumping over rocks like hurdles, dodging people. I see our little fence, maybe I should slow down, but no, mom can walk in anytime now. I’m motivated to run.

It only takes a few seconds until my tears too start running down my cheeks. I’m on the ground, full of dust and dirt. I can smell the terrible stench of the Hansa Pilsner. But, at least one bottle survived. I take it out, put it aside and throw out the broken pieces of glass. I’m not crying because I’m hurt. I’m crying because I broke Gran’s beer. Only the Lord knows what’s going to happen when I get home.

I tell Gran what had happened, and to my surprise she says it’s no big deal.

“You probably saved a life,” she said.

“You’re not mad at me Gran?”

“Of course I am! But your grandpa used to say, ‘One broken bottle, one life saved’. Now go brush your teeth.”

So … superstition holds it that when one accidentally breaks glass, he or she might have just saved a life. I don’t know how, but ja.

By the time Mom and bro get back from church, it is very late. The repeat movie on eTV is already done. Wrestling is also done. I’ve already had my Sunday kos.

Mom seems to be limping. She says that on their way back from church their taxi collided with another, but luckily no-one was badly injured.

I think about all of this and I wonder now. Does all this make me a hero? Should I brag about it and tell Mom how I saved their lives?

But then again it could be my fault that they were in an accident. I should’ve listened to Gran. I regret ever messing with the salt. Innocent people are getting hurt.

***

Tell us: The ‘ouens’ believe in witchcraft. Do you think there is any truth in the belief that someone can cause another person to die, through casting a spell or curse?