She folds the first letter away and opens the second one, this one from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It’s in response to her inquiry about Dumisa, informing her that his name has come up in one of their interviews. There isn’t any further information, just a notification that information about him will be disclosed in one of the upcoming hearings, and that she’ll be informed of the date and venue once it’s scheduled.

We’ll know the truth soon, Mama. That is my birthday gift to you.

Zodwa goes inside and sits on the couch, reaching for the remote. The opening credits of the eight o’clock movie have just begun playing, with the sound turned low, when headlights sweep across the wall. It’s too early for it to be the sisters, though knowing Ruth, she’s probably come back just to check on Mandla. Zodwa gets up and walks to the window to see who it is. There’s a bakkie that she doesn’t recognize pulled up at the gate.

Zodwa waits for the intercom to buzz to announce their presence but nothing happens, and when she turns the volume from the TV down, she can hear the car idling.

That’s when the power goes out.

The house is plunged into darkness, the picture on the television contracting to a pinpoint of blue before disappearing completely. The only light in the room now comes from the car’s headlights, and Zodwa watches as a backlit figure gets out of the passenger side, reaches through the fence to flip something up, and then manually pulls the gate aside before getting back into the vehicle.

She goes cold as the car pulls inside.

The panic button? Where is the panic button?

Zodwa looks to the table but it isn’t there. It’s not on the couch either. When she looks back outside again, she doesn’t recognize the two men who are lit up in the bakkie’s interior as one of them opens a door.

“We should have done this months ago. That’s the only way to deal with vermin, show no mercy.”

“We didn’t know how bad it was then. Now we do. Now we put a stop to it.”

The men are speaking in Afrikaans. What frightens Zodwa, besides the air of aggression that hangs over them, is how drunk they are. They’re both slurring their words and the one staggers as he gets out of the bakkie. She knows from firsthand experience at the shebeen that you can’t reason with angry, drunk men.

As they advance toward the house, Zodwa sees they’re wearing what look like army uniforms. She shrinks back, not wanting them to see her through the window. She steps to the side and leans her back against the wall, flinching as they bang on the door.

“Open up, whore. Open the fucking door.”