Mama is strangely silent this Sunday afternoon. The only sound coming from the kitchen is the clatter of her stainless-steel pots as she bangs them against each other on the stove. She dishes up the samp and beans, still in the same grave silence. We take our bowls outside. It is very hot in the kitchen, and Mama’s constant hissing and tsk-tsking is another reason why my sister and I decide to eat outside.

It is hot and dry again this afternoon. The grass is yellowish from lack of rain. Mama says that the winter this year must be a punishment. She has never seen such dryness. At the morning service the Deacon of the church preached about drought and how it is a fulfilment of the prophecies about the end of the world coming. The congregation prayed and asked for rain.

I listened and imagined how, before the missionaries had brought the Bible, our ancestors would have danced and called on the wind, mountains and rivers; called on Mother Earth, asking for rain.

Now, sitting under the giant tree in the heat, I am almost lulled to sleep. The serenity of being under the whispering, dry leaves makes the weather more bearable. I think about the service. The scripture reading was about Moses and the Israeli masses, stranded in the desert.

“My brothers and sisters, even when our ancestor Moses thought God had abandoned him, God said to Moses, “Be patient – ekuqgibeleni kukhona umvuzo – God has not forgotten us either. He is here in our midst.”

The congregation clapped their hands, wailed. The Deacon, elated by the spirit of Moses, preached on.

“Amongst us are those who will not enter the Kingdom of Our Father. Amongst us are those who are servants of the Devil.”

The congregation responded with heartfelt “Amens”, “Hallelujas” and pitiful moans.

“Bazalwana, it is our duty to wipe clean all evil in this church. It is our duty to save those who are wicked. It is our duty to change their wicked ways.”

While I lie flat on my stomach now, lost in thought, my sister suddenly taps me on my back and says: “She won’t look me straight in the eye.”

“Who? What are you talking about?” I ask, still in that far-off place.

“She talks dirty, that’s why!” my sister, Phindi, says. Her face scowls.

I look up to see a tall, robust young woman walking past. She is new in our village and she keeps herself to herself. She carries her heaviness around gracefully, like a crown.

“What does she talk dirty about?” I ask.

“You know … stuff,” Phindi says shyly, not as confident now. “I heard rumours. It was at Umphumo – the ceremony at the end of initiation, when boys become men.”

Phindi had my attention now. I had never seen her worked up about other people’s business. Why now, so much, about this woman whose roots were a mystery?

“What were other people saying about her ‘shameful’ behaviour?”

“They were not pleased,” said Phindi. The tone of her voice expressed disgust.

I had heard the story about the colourful language the woman had used at the ceremony.

“I don’t see anything wrong with what she did, or apparently said,” I tell my sister. Phindi looks at me like I am just as dirty as the language the woman had used. “She was simply calling each body part by its real name. No harm in that.”

Phindi is horrified, even before the sentence is finished: “You do not know what you’re talking about. What she was doing is taboo at her age, and I hear she has children somewhere. She should be ashamed of herself!” Phindi claps her hands, stands up, infuriated. “I mean, you say it’s not bad, but you don’t ever talk the way she does! Why don’t you ever use such rude, vulgar … such raw language if there is ‘no harm’?”

I am speechless. But Phindi is quick at reprimanding those who dare to question the conventions of society. “Let me tell you why,” she says. “It’s because, as we both know, it is wrong!”

Phindi concludes the argument triumphantly, striding back to the house. She leaves me stunned by this revelation of her strong beliefs and old-fashioned ways. Phindi, dark and beautiful. I watch her enter the house. I had no idea my sister was capable of such strong opinions.

That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn. Phindi has definitely stirred up my secret obsession with the woman. Now I want to know her real name. I have heard people calling her by her clan-name. She has children, lots I hear, but I have never seen even one. I have heard Mama saying the woman’s children were taken from her. They are living with their grandmother. Why? Mama told me she is dangerous. It is rumoured she stabbed her husband to death over money.

Still, part of me admires her. The way she is so self-contained, so graceful. So unconcerned about what others think of her. Does she go to church? She never goes to ours. What does she believe in? She must have something that is keeping her together. How does she stay sane with all these rumours and accusations?

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