The tree stood tall, towering above Richmount settlement. Despite its name, shanty houses sprouted like wild mushrooms along the steep hills of this township. During the day, children feasted on sweet lemons perched on the great lemon tree. With bloated bellies, their cheeks pushed back their ears as they enjoyed the golden treats.

Their parents had forbidden them against indulging on fruits from that tree. Severe punishment was dished out to any child caught contradicting their parent’s warning. But kids being kids, they soon succumbed to their thirst, and plucked the glowing gems from the tree whenever they got a chance. 

Besides, there wasn’t a fruit tree anywhere near their vicinity. The only lemons they ever got to see were a giant pyramid stacked on a corner of their local grocery store. Even those were never as sweet as these. Perhaps their sweetness was enhanced by the thrill of stealing them.

But could the parents be blamed? No one had ever heard of a tree maturing inside six weeks. Six weeks ago, there wasn’t any frenzy around any tree, for it was not around.

“It must be witch-craft,” the parents would whisper to each other. “Where have you seen a tree growing overnight? On the very ground that swallowed a family no less? Never!”

But those who knew, never wondered.

That plot had belonged to Jack Mthimkhulu. He had disappeared mysteriously just before the emergence of that great tree. He was a lumber man who took piece jobs anywhere he’d find. At night, he wandered the streets, speaking to himself. Often, lionesque howls could be heard coming from his house.

It happened so much that neighbours soon grew used to it and ignored it. In fact, they began to pretend that he was a shadow. Or better yet: a dark cloud of dust.

Before his thirteen-year absence, as a result of his arrest, he had built a reputation of being one of the most feared men in the whole township. If ever he happened to be walking on the streets, any person he was approaching, miraculously remembered something they had forgotten, and made a U-turn back to where they came. Everyone dreaded to cross his path.

After his grandmother’s passing, on the news of his arrest, he returned to a solitary home. The house was tiny, yet it was always kept neat and clean. Throughout all the seasons, the lawn was green and crisp. It was one thing the neighbours were proud to have in their community. The roof of the house, however, was a caving tin-sheet. When winds whispered, it creaked a sad song. When the sun was at its peak, it became a boiler room.

He had the appearance of a wounded dog, yet he was in his late twenties. That upright, muscular stature he once had in his younger years had withered through the sands of time. His figure was no bigger than a broom handle. His straw-like limbs poked out of his oversized dungaree.

Like other days, after nightfall, Jack Mthimkhulu dragged his body through the back door. His back stooped under the weight of the heavy bag on his shoulders. He put his big axe behind the kitchen door and began unpacking. He took out three bottles of his usual cheap whisky and gin, two tubs of dishwashing liquid and thick bleach, as well as three boxes of powdered soap.

He moved to the bathroom sink and replaced the empty bottles of bleach. His cabinet was bare. Remnants of the swept shards of the mirror laid hidden under the mat. He began washing his blistered hands vigorously as if there was a stain that couldn’t be removed. His scrubbing was halted by a rumble coming from his stomach.

He walked over to the kitchen to fix himself something to eat. Before he began, he topped his glass with a cold beer. He heated some ox tripe and amadombolo and a fried piece of steak. With his meal in his hand, he hopped into the living room. As he sat, he bumped on his knees underneath the small coffee table, as he tried to stretch his legs.

Instead of eating, he stared at his hands. The blood from the steak took away his appetite. He washed down the bitter taste built up in his mouth with the cold beer. In silence, to step over something buried within him, his mind wandered. It settled on Noxolo, a young woman who sells amakip-kip and amagwinya outside the local school fence. The ache inside him subsided.

He began to recall the day they met….