It was a familiar sight to see villagers trailing down to the river at dawn. This pilgrimage to fetch clean, fresh water from the river used to be a social time, to catch up with each other. Now it has become a treacherous duty. Everyone fights over who should have water and how much. And the water they fight over is the colour of tea with a little milk poured into it. Its taste is salty and it causes diarrhoea.

Phindi and I take our buckets and head down to the river. We walk in silence, partly because lately we have been arguing about everything.

“I cannot believe we still have no clean drinking water!” Phindi seems to be talking to herself. She is not addressing anyone in particular, especially not me.

“I read in school that in a hundred years, people are going to buy water like they do petrol and oil. There will be more drought in some places and more floods in others. It is because of something called global warming,” I tell my sister.

“The days of Revelations are upon us; diseases with no cure! People buying water! These are indeed the end of days,” my sister says, shaking her head in disbelief.

It must be hard for the woman now, I think. People are saying such bad things about her. It seems that as the drought grows worse, so do their accusations. They blame her for all the bad things that have been happening in the village these past few months. I need to help her, but how?

When I get back home first, with my ten litre bucket full of brown water, I lower it from my head and put it on the table.

Then Phindi storms in close behind and announces: “That baby that died. We know she killed the boy.” She glares at me as though, because I am sympathetic to the woman, I am somehow also to blame. I am shocked. I do not know what to say.

She is talking about a newborn baby who died in the village and was buried recently in the graveyard. He could have died of a hundred medical reasons but now the woman has become a scapegoat for anything bad that happens.

Phindi walks out, talking to herself: “Something has to be done about this witch.”

So now she has become a witch, I think. A sharp, piercing pain strikes deep in my chest. I have to go to the woman to find out for myself – and to warn her.

Outside villagers are wrangling: “Lo mfazi makahambe, this woman must go,” says one.

“We are going to starve to death,” another says.

“With this drought we will not make our first harvest in time.”

“Are we going to allow this woman to destroy us?” I hear Phindi shouting. “She murdered that baby to make one of her spells.”

“Yes, I saw her standing at the graveyard the other night,” a woman adds fuel to Phindi’s fire.

“We are already two weeks into intwasahlobo, the blossoming of summer, and the first rains still have not come.” Another woman has joined the conversation.

I walk out to join the crowd that has gathered outside our home. Standing next to Phindi, I hear myself saying, “I want to go to her house.” I look at Phindi, searching for approval. Her face is blank. I can’t control myself, can’t hold back.

“Sisi, did you hear what I said?” I insist.

“That woman has you under her evil spell. I told you not to look at her, but no, you wouldn’t listen. Now you want to go to her Satan-infested home!” Phindi shouts

. “Do you see how angry the people are?”

I am terrified. I have never heard my beautiful sister shouting so viciously.

“She is a witch. She travels by night, riding on a loaf of bread. What in the Lord’s name are you doing going to her house?” My sister is hysterical now. “The Deacon of the church said there are evil forces in this village. We believe it is her who is causing the drought. Do you think it is an accident that the drought started when she arrived in this village, from God knows where?”

“Sisi, I want to go and talk to her. She cannot be as everyone says. She needs to be given the chance to explain.”

“What? Explain that she is a witch?”

“To tell us about why she is here.”

“She is here to make trouble,” one woman mutters. “That’s all.”

It is no good trying to make these people see sense. Sick at all the gossip and speculation, I march towards her house. I want to go and see for myself, once and for all, what is true and what is not. Phindi shouts after me, but I can’t hear what she says.

I pick up my pace and run down the path towards her hut, rehearsing what I am going to say if she answers the door. I know one thing: I need to greet her politely. I want to show her that I am trained well by my parents to respect my elders. Then I need to get inside her hut to see for myself.

I need to ask her: “Please Mama, may I come in?”

***

Tell us what you think: Is it a good idea for Qhawekazi to visit this woman?