In the prematurely low sun morning Lindelwa was accompanied by Melokuhle to the Sosibo resident to donate small amount of money for their loss. People of the village expressed their condolences through the donations. Helping one another.

“Will your mother donate too?” Lindelwa asked as they made their way passing a government house that was busting music.

“Never” Melokuhle responded. “People hardly donated on my father’s death. It was only your family and neighbours.”

How could she forget of his father’s death. Three years back. Melokuhle’s father had been in a fatal fight with a man who stabbed him six times. Melokuhle had been traumatised ending up not achieving his national senior certificate of the last high school grade. Many didn’t attend his father’s funeral. People never liked him. He was a violence man who had beaten up many men, and their family hated him to the core for his fighting skills.

“I understand” said Lindelwa as they approached the Sosibo residence.

It had a government house. A hut and a two-room mud house. All painted in cream-white.

Mrs Sosibo was in tears when they walked inside the yard. She kept saying ‘That’s not my son’ and Mr Sosibo was trying all he could to calm her down.

“Sanibonani” Lindelwa greeted. “What’s wrong ngoMa?”

“Ay, ay, please take that thing in my house” said Mrs Sosibo. “That is not my son. That’s not my son!”.

She was resentful yet in pain, though the two friends did not understand what she meant because her son was found dead last afternoon. They were looking at each other flabbergasted.

“Our boy returned to us last night” Mr Sosibo explained. ” Alive and it felt like a dream to see him on our doorstep. But… It’s not him. I don’t know. He’s way too spooky.”

Lindelwa recalled her father saying something familiar about the pastor. That he looked the liked him but it wasn’t him. She then wondered if the boy was related to whats happening to the pastor.

They all turned when they heard a voice behind them. It was the older son on his late twenties. Tall, dark and skinny.

Lindelwa had never liked him. He was disrespectful because he can’t handle rejection. He had court her but rejected him politely as she could, but he had turned into a lion, roaring with insults.

“Why are you crying mother?” he said.

He seemed dead but alive. His voice was odd, sounding like a white professional man.

He turned to the two friends and added, ” Why do we have guests so early in the morning?”

Mrs Sosibo cried out again, terrified to see her son. She stepped back wagging her hands, losing her sanity.

“Have you become a crazy person mother?” He said, and his father became upset.

“Don’t you dare speak to your mother that way! And where have you been?”

He turned to his father, as like a robot.

“I’m too old to be telling you my whereabouts father” he said, eyes without a blink.

“Not when you still living under my roof”

“I’ve had a long night. I need rest.”

As he turned to walk away, his father grabbed his hand; quick to let go. He was agitated to feel a cold and hard skin as a rock.

He walked to the two room house, leaving Lindelwa deep in thoughts. She suspected what was wrong with him.

Although she wasn’t exactly sure, Lindelwa believed he was a doppelganger.