She was wearing a National Party T-shirt with State President F. W. de Klerk’s face on it to show her support of the apartheid government. “No, everyone’s just stockpiling,” the woman replied in Afrikaans, which I then switched to as well. Though Ruth and I had been sent to study at an English school by our father, the entire farming community, as well as Ma, had been Afrikaans and so we were fluent in both languages.

“Stockpiling? For what?”

“For when Nelson Mandela becomes president and the civil war begins.”

I thought she was joking but she looked dead serious. “Civil war?”

“Yes, the blacks have been threatening for years to come after all the whites as revenge for apartheid. None of us will be safe anymore. Women especially. Can you imagine anything worse than being raped by a filthy kaffir?”

As I drove back to the farm five minutes later, my mind was still reeling from what she’d said. Passing the squatter camp, I was forced to stop when the light turned red. Signs were posted at various points across the intersection warning drivers to be on the lookout since it was a prime hijacking location. I locked the doors.

While waiting for the light to change, I took in the chaotic scene around me. Minivan taxis were stopping, loading up passengers and then pulling out again haphazardly, kicking up dust. Pedestrians chatted in groups or stood with their hands out, the splay of their fingers indicating where they were headed. Hawkers shouted out their wares as guinea fowl and goats roamed the side of the road.

Everyone was black and a vast majority of the people were sporting Nelson Mandela’s popular green, yellow, and black African National Congress colors. Considering that the ban on his party had only been lifted in 1990, the support for it was impressive. The only white faces in the throng were those in their cars like I was, their doors locked but their faces still betraying their anxiety. Could the cashier at the Spar have been right? Was there reason to be scared?

She’d probably lived in the town her whole life whereas I’d only just returned to a country that was as wholly changed as I was. How could I profess to know my country as a prodigal daughter returning after all that time?