Zodwa has been waiting for two hours in the mortuary queue when she finally gets called. She’s already been to two morgues and a funeral home in the Magaliesburg area, but none of them could help her. This is where all unclaimed bodies from the area are sent, she’s been told. It depresses her to think that there would be so many waiting for their families to fetch them and lay them to rest.

Zodwa borrowed the money for taxi fare from the township to Krugersdorp from Mama Beauty but lied about what she needed it for. It’s not that she doesn’t need money for food, but this is more important than eating.

The woman assisting her is white and looks to be too old to be working. She peers at Zodwa out of thick spectacles.

“I’m here to inquire about a child that died . . . to see if his body was brought here,” Zodwa says.

“A boy?”

“Yes.”

“What was the date of his death and how old was he?” She’s pulled out a form and is filling it in as Zodwa answers.

“Either the tenth or the eleventh of May, just after his birth. He would have been a day or two old.”

“Did he have any distinguishing features?”

“Yes, a birthmark on his left buttock in the shape of Africa.”

“And where was the body taken?”

The body. As though it’s a bag of stones or something else lifeless and lacking value. Zodwa suddenly hates the woman for her objectivity even as she envies it. How wonderful it must be to constantly be exposed to so much suffering and to sit safely in the knowledge that it isn’t yours.

She grits her teeth. “I don’t know.”

This gets a reaction out of the woman. She stops writing and looks up. “You don’t know what happened to the body?”

“My baby,” Zodwa says. “Not ‘the body.’ My baby.” The woman blinks at her and Zodwa keeps talking for fear that she’ll be cast out for insolence. “Please, madam. I don’t even know if my baby actually died. He was fine after his birth and then . . .” Zodwa trails off, not wanting to speak ill of Leleti even after her death but needing to explain her predicament. “He was taken away and I never saw him again. I was told he died.”

The woman sighs. “But you don’t know where he was taken or if he really had . . . passed?”

“No.”

“Can’t you ask the person who took him?”

Zodwa shakes her head, startled by the tears. “She died as well.”

To Zodwa’s surprise, the woman clucks and sets down her pen. She reaches for Zodwa’s hand and squeezes it gently. The gesture almost undoes her. “Ag, my child. It sounds like you’ve had a very rough time of it. Are you okay?”