The nyanga begins groaning while rocking back and forth. The smell of impepho burning saturates the air, and the sage fills Zodwa’s lungs with every breath she takes, dulling her senses with its hypnotic scent. The hut, darkened and warm, reminds her of home. At least, the home she’d lived in with her grandmother in KwaZulu before she joined her mother in the sqatter camp earlier in the year.

Her grandmother had been reluctant, at first, to relinquish Zodwa to Leleti and considering everything that had happened, Zodwa couldn’t blame her. Her gogo had lost her only son, Zodwa’s father, to a mining accident in the City of Gold, and then Zodwa’s eighteen-year-old brother, Dumisa, disappeared less than a year after leaving for Johannesburg when Zodwa was seven.

“Be very careful, my child,” Zodwa’s gogo had cautioned her before she left the village for the township. “Bad things happen in the city. Its gods are very hungry and must be appeased. Don’t become one of the sacrifices made to it.

“You must study hard, mzukulu wami,” her grandmother had continued. “You must be brave but do not try to be as brave as your brother was. If your light shines too bright, someone will always seek to extinguish it. And do not give in to temptations. The city makes girls forget their virtue and modesty. It makes them behave in wanton ways. Remember, my child, that a good bride price comes from respect.”

Zodwa had tried to follow her gogo’s advice, she really had, but the township had awakened something in her. It was as if the city’s electricity had jump-started her body, and no matter how much she tried to keep her thoughts pure, they simply wouldn’t cooperate.

There will be no good lobolo now. There will be no bride price at all since no offer of marriage has come.

Zodwa’s thoughts are interrupted by the nyanga rising from her place on the floor. The old woman winces as she stands up on stiff knees and shuffles over to where Zodwa sits.

Her voice is hoarse. “The amadlozi are angry with you.”

It is what Zodwa most feared hearing. No one wants to incite the wrath of the ancestors. “Because of the baby?”

The old woman shoots Zodwa a shrewd look. “It is not the baby the ancestors speak of.”

Zodwa hangs her head, the familiar shame slithering its way up her spine.

“What did you dream the last time you slept?” the healer asks.

It isn’t difficult to answer, as the nightmare has stayed with Zodwa all day. “I dreamt I was being chased.”

“By what?”

Zodwa shivers inwardly. “Two white owls. Their wingspan stretched across the sky, blocking out the sun.”

The healer’s frown deepens. “And then what happened?”

“I thought they were going to kill me, but it wasn’t me they wanted.”

“What then?”