‘An emergency? What has happened?’ the shopkeeper said, betraying himself by being too eager for information. The villagers had long suspected him of being the spy amongst them – the sell-out – the one who called the security forces and told them that the boys from the bush had been in the village and politicised the people, while forgetting to mention that he too had danced around the fire and sung the liberation songs the loudest. The villagers did not have any real evidence that the shopkeeper actually communicated with the security forces. What they knew was that the shopkeeper owned a walkie-talkie and no one else in their community did, so it stood to reason that he was using it to communicate with the security forces. He probably was the one who had informed the intelligence boys that Emil Coetzee had walked into the bush and not walked out of it.

While they would never trust the shopkeeper further than they could spit, the villagers had long reconciled themselves to the fact that they needed his presence amongst them. He was not without his uses. Now Chief Cele Mkhize and Joli Msimanga both regretted not having had the foresight to bring a woman with them. The shopkeeper, it was a well-known secret, was very susceptible to the flutter of a skirt and the buxom curve of an ample bosom. He liked nothing more than to have the loneliness of his days alleviated by the entry into his store of a shy giggle and the scent of Lux soap mingled with cocoa butter.

Having no one soft and supple with whom to bribe the shopkeeper, they realised there was nothing else to be done but drive all the way to the City of Kings and talk to Spokes Moloi in person. Chief Cele Mkhize, Joli Msimanga and the two mujibhas left the shop and the rather self-satisfied shopkeeper behind. They all looked at the road-weary Ford Mustang and hoped and prayed that it would see them through to their journey’s end.

Luckily, at that very moment, a near-miracle occurred. Dikeledi Moyana, resplendent in her postman’s uniform, was peddling up a dust storm on her way to deliver what they all needed most. The cuffs of her trousers were pegged, the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up, and the brim of her cap was set low, shielding her eyes from the setting sun … and sitting on the bicycle’s carrier, like a queen on a throne, was Noma, her face freshly cold-creamed, her skin freshly cocoa-buttered, her afro freshly glycerined. Both women squinted through the dust raised by the bicycle on the road as they came closer to accomplishing their mission.