When I get to her hut I notice the strangest of things: two lines of clear one-litre plastic bottles. The left hand row has the top of each bottle cut off, and each one is standing on a little block of wood, to raise it up. Each bottle has a layer of tiny pebbles at the bottom and on top of that is a thick layer of sand. Pushed through the plastic in the bottom and into the pebbles are straight bits of stick, pointing down into a cup next to each bottle. The water in these bottles is dirty – our river water. But the water running down the stick and caught by the cups underneath is clear – totally clear!

The second row is capped bottles filled with clear water that sparkles in the sun. It’s a long time since I’ve seen such pure water. It looks so inviting I want to drink as much as I can.

I think of what the villagers are saying about how she is a witch and how she casts spells. Is this a spell? What would happen if I drank that water in the clear bottles? I think of the apple in Snow White. It looked so beautiful, so enticing, but when she bit into it …

I take a deep breath and then knock on her door and wait. I hear footsteps and then her tall frame fills the doorway. She smiles down at me.

“Hello child. What can I do for you?” Her voice is deep and calm.

Peeking inside the hut past her, I stammer, “Ma-a-ma, excuse me … may I…”

Turning to the side, she signals that I may enter.

The hut is bigger on the inside than it looks from outside. It has very little furniture but it is clean. There is one single bed, a small old table and a cupboard. The floor has been skilfully sealed with cow dung. It smells fresh. There are no gigantic talking frogs bouncing around or owls hanging from the thatched ceiling, or signs of spells being cast here; no animal skins strung on the mud walls. There is nothing unusual, nothing out of the ordinary.

She offers me tea – a gesture that suggests I am a prized guest. I accept.

“Mama, I am Qhawekazi, uMaDlamini, iNkosi, Sibalikhulu, Zizi, uJama kaSijadu.” I introduce myself. She listens patiently while I cite my clan names. I speak fast and nervously and when I finish I wait for her to do the same, as is customary.

“Ndingu Mafaku, Thahla kaNdayeli … inkosazana yaseMaMpondweni.”

I sit on a grass mat while she prepares tea. I notice a bottle, like the ones outside, with clean water in it.

She brings two cups of black rooibos tea.

“I suppose you are wondering where I am from, like the rest of the villagers. Well, I can tell you I come from the village of Ngwevana next to the KuMevana river.”

I pluck up courage. “It must have been hard leaving your home.” There is a long pause and I think she isn’t going to answer. Perhaps I have gone too far and she will throw me out of her home.

“No, not hard,” she says. “Life is easier for me here.”

How can it be easier, I wonder. What happened in the last village? But I can see this is as much about her past as she is willing to tell me. There is an awkward silence before I start to talk about the weather.

“It’s been really hot lately. I hope this drought breaks soon,” I say, as I drink the rooibos tea. I can’t tell her how the villagers think she is a witch and that they accuse her of causing the drought. But who am I fooling? Of course she knows.

At that moment her voice breaks into my thoughts.

“Qhawekazi, my child, I know what the villagers are saying and thinking. I know why you have come here. You think I caused the drought … and other bad things no doubt…”

She thinks I am one of them. But I am utterly speechless. I open and close my mouth, but nothing comes out, no defence. She continues.

“I know that the villagers resent me. There is a big problem in the village. It is only in talking about it that the problem will go away. If we avoid it, avoid one another, it will only grow.” She looks at me like she can see into my soul. I can’t hide from those penetrating dark eyes. She is still young but they are full of wisdom. There isn’t hatred there.

“Ewe, Mama.” This is all I can say. Is this the same woman some of the villagers claim said rude things at the ceremony? I cannot imagine a rude word coming out of her mouth. Is it possible that Phindi had made up the story? But she is my sister; she would not lie to me, would she?

As if she reads my mind and sees my inner turmoil, she gets up and walks to the table. She takes two water bottles and hands one to me.

“Drink,” she says.

I cannot refuse her.

I take the bottle and press it to my lips. The water is cool. I take a sip and then another. I can’t stop drinking. It tastes so good. And then I realise she is watching me and I stop.

“How does it taste?” she asks quietly.

“Good. It tastes good.”

She takes the bottle from me and screws the cap back on. I think of that apple in the fairy story. Is something going to happen to me now that I have drunk the water? Has her spell been cast? No, those are superstitious thoughts. They are the thoughts that Phindi has. I get up to go.

“Mama, mandicel’indlela. It’s getting late and I have to finish my chores…” I lie to her. I want to get out of her house. Escape. I cannot take it anymore. I have so many questions. About the rows of bottles outside her house. About this water. About her past. But I don’t know how to ask her without offending her. She thinks I think the same way about her as the villagers and that I am coming just to be nosy.

“My child, it’s been a pleasure having you,” she says, getting up from her grass mat.

“Thank you mama for … for everything.”

I can’t wait to get home. I feel like a coward. As I leave I see those bottles of clear water catching the sun. It’s a mystery. She is a mystery.

***

Tell us what you think: Is the woman casting spells? Or is there some other explanation for the clear water?