Suffian Hakimje citiraoпре 9 година
The newsreader's mouth opens and closes, words tumble out, crashing my world: “Award-winning Motswana writer dies in car accident.”

Killed? Killed.

Ntsimane changes the channel. Why did he do that? Does he know? He couldn't. I have told no one.

I close the kitchen door and feel my legs buckle. I cling to the kitchen table. My heart pounds in my ears. How? When? I beat the eggs and sugar together faster. Jam, vinegar, flour A spoonful at a time. Sequestered in the kitchen, away from Ntsimane, I force in long deep breaths, wheeze instead. Botshelo is dead. Breathe. Breathe.

What is that noise? Sizzling – coming from the stove. The oxtail stew is burning.
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