It was early evening when Lulama gazed out of the window again. She stared back at the distant forest where her life had almost ended unexpectedly – she had almost been murdered by something she wrote about with her own hand. Her husband hadn’t returned since he stormed out earlier. Not that she cared about his whereabouts, she only cared about the Tokoloshe that had come to life – it was a problem she needed to solve before it appeared again.

Lulama thought about a prophet that the village people always talked about – how this prophet was a model of humanity. She thought about the true things he said and that he was a teacher and guided the people of the village. The rumours she had mostly heard about this prophet were that he was reliable and trustworthy which was most important regarding her situation. This prophet also cast out evil spirits.

Wrapping up her thoughts, and approving her decision, she went and put on a jacket and jeans to cover the bruises on her arms and legs, then strode out of the house.

Approaching a six-cornered hut after a twenty-five kilometres walk from her house, she took off her shoes before she was invited inside by a baritone voice. The hut wasn’t what Lulama expected when she peered in. It had nothing but two grass mats on the floor and three white candles placed in between them. She had expected to see the roots of Umuthi stuffed in bottles and strange bones lying around, but she reminded herself that this wasn’t a Sangoma’s hut.

“Kade ngikulindele (I have been expecting you),” the baritone voice spoke again.

He was a man in his late forties, with a beard and moustache almost burying his whole face. What he’d just said surprised Lulama even more, because she was told to come inside before her knuckles knocked on his door.

“Then you should know why I’m here,” said Lulama softly as she stared into the prophet’s sunken eyes.

“Well, of course. The mysterious evil from your great work has come for your life.”

Lulama swallowed as her heart took a jump and she realised this prophet had a superior logic and ability of persuasion.

“How is it even possible? How can it be stopped?” Lulama said in a desperate tone.

“Cela ubeke iphepha elinsundu phambili kwalamaKhandlela (Please put a brown paper in front of the candles),” said the prophet, requesting his consulting fee.

The prophet lit his candles after Lulama tossed the twenty rand note. The prophet kept his eyes shut for about a minute then, at last, after what felt like years of waiting for Lulama, he finally spoke.

“I’m afraid the mysterious evil has been summoned by the one close to you,” the prophet said. Lulama froze in shock. “The only way to stop it is to get rid of it – it’s owner – the person who summoned it.”