Philemon blinked at him for a moment, and then said, ‘Yes, my wife, she is dying, truesgod.’

‘Is she dying at this very moment? Right now, as we speak?’

Philemon looked at him, incredulous. ‘No, baas, I am telling you, she is dying.’

‘Dead. She is dead. She has already died. She is not in the process of dying.’

Philemon looked very confused.

‘Tickey!’ Agnes said, entering the kitchen. The cold cream had been wiped off her face, but her hair was still in rollers and her terrycloth morning gown still knotted at her waist. ‘A grammar lesson at a time like this! Honestly, where is your humanity?’ She tsk-tsked as she sat herself down next to Philemon and put a hand over his trembling hands. ‘Poor man is in shock.’

The truth was, Rutherford didn’t know what to do. The man’s wife was dead. What exactly was required of him in such a situation? Rutherford had always spoken to Philemon as a baas, and Philemon had always responded as a boy. None of their previous exchanges had anticipated having to communicate something as intimate as death.

‘What say I make you a strong cup of tea with plenty plus sugar in it?’ Agnes said, patting Philemon’s hands as she got up from the table. How was it that she knew exactly what to say and do?

‘Someone is killing my wife,’ Philemon said in utter disbelief.

Rutherford looked at his garden boy, trying to gauge whether or not he had loved his wife. Rutherford felt certain that if he knew this, then he would know exactly how to act and exactly what to feel. He thought back to all the times he had heard Philemon mention his wife, and it seemed to him that every time Philemon had been complaining about his wife. Nothing new there; what husband did not complain about his wife? They were, by nature, a bloody nuisance, but unfortunately also a necessary one. Even after this rumination, Rutherford was none the wiser about how Philemon felt about Sitshengisiwe. Rutherford vaguely remembered her from the many years that she had lived in his boy’s kia with Philemon. She had been rather fecund, and the only distinguishing thing he could remember about her was that he had thought she did not carry herself as she ought.

‘Someone is killing my wife,’ Philemon repeated when Agnes placed the yellow Kango enamel cup filled with hot, sweet tea in front of him.

Tired of feeling helpless, Rutherford was relieved when he realised he knew exactly what to do.

Spokes looked at the man sitting opposite him and watched as he struggled to lift the egg-yolk yellow Kango cup. Its contents were in grave danger of spilling. Spokes nodded at the man after he had managed to take a sip of tea. ‘I am very sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you,’ the man stammered, placing his Kango cup carefully on the kitchen table.