The child had loved pretty and perfect things, and because the brown bottle had never been what she wanted, she, feeling generous, had taken it to the hut that was her mother’s kitchen because her mother was always looking for things to put other things in. That done, she had put the pretty-looking label amongst her collection of pretty and perfect things – a marbled stone, a colourful butterfly wing, a piece of pink ribbon, a seashell with the sound of the ocean contained within it – which she kept hidden and secret and for her eyes only under her bedding in the hut that she shared with her two siblings. It was in this almost-perfect hiding place that Spokes found the label and deduced its journey there.

The girl’s mother, upon finding the empty brown bottle among her kitchen things, could not believe her luck, and immediately put it to use as a handy conveyance for cooking oil – the convenient brown bottle would prove so much better than a gallon-sized can of Olivine oil that had to be lugged to and from the fire. Because the bottle had looked clean, she had not bothered to wash it. Because the light in the hut was poor, she had not seen the remnants of the liquid at the bottom of the bottle before she carefully poured in the Olivine oil, determined not to waste a drop. As she had cooked the supper, she had sung to her children and shared in their laughter, and none of them sitting around the fire, happy together, had known that they would not live to see the morning sun.

It had not been an easy case to solve, but Spokes had done it; and as he explained to the magistrate what had happened, the villagers, who were in attendance, sat there, mouths agape with awe, too shocked and saddened to cry. The only one of the villagers who made a sound was the second wife of the Good Samaritan – the very woman everyone had readily labelled a witch. She wailed in a keening voice and carried her arms on her head as she repeated the name of the little girl who had loved pretty and perfect things – Khethiwe! Khethiwe! Khethiwe! Khethiwe – the chosen one.

Spokes shook his head at the pathos of the whole affair before he selected one of the rubber stamps on his desk, pressed it onto the inkpad, and stamped the words ‘Case Closed’ across the light-blue folder thick with photographs and case notes, and then placed it in his out tray.

That left the thin, light-blue manila folder faded with age and dog-eared from too much handling. After a long, long time, Spokes slowly and carefully lifted it out of his in tray and gently placed it in his out tray.

Sitshengisiwe

SITSHENGISIWE