A group of Swazi children dressed in traditional animal skins and cast-off Western clothing stand outside the stones that mark the boundaries of Mama’s yard. They point and whisper at the stranger in their village: me. Lottie they already know. Far off in the distance, a woman sings in a field, and the sound tugs at my insides. The song reminds me of a favorite doll that I lost on the trek home from the markets in Manzini when I was little.

Mama beams at Lottie, and they talk in Zulu, easy in each other’s company. I sit with my legs tucked to the side, as Lottie instructed, and wonder what they’re saying. I know just enough Zulu to tell the maid to wash the dishes and scrub the floor, but even then, I mime the actions so she understands.

“Darnell comes and goes from the village, but Mama hasn’t seen him for days.” Lottie translates Mama’s words into English for me. “He’s not here.”

Mama leans closer and becomes animated. She makes the shape of a gun with her fingers and pulls the trigger. Boom. One of the children, a girl with cornrowed hair, clutches her chest and falls to the ground, where she twitches her arms and legs while the other children shriek with laughter. Mama smiles, amused by their antics.

“There was trouble on Bosman’s farm last night,” Lottie tells me after the girl gets up and dusts herself off. “Mama doesn’t know what started it, but they heard a gunshot blast and the dogs barked all night. She’s not worried for Darnell. Bosman and his sons shoot at shadows and Darnell knows every inch of these hills so he’s probably fine. We should go back to school, where it’s safe. She says to stay away from Bosman’s farm.”

Good advice. It’s time to rejoin the main search before Mr. Moses discovers us missing and sends out a second wave of students to call our names into the wind.

“That’s that.” I tell Lottie. “Time to go back.”

“We can’t pick up and leave the moment we get what we want!” My suggestion horrifies her, as does my ignorance of the niceties of Swazi society. “It’s bad manners. We have to stay and talk. Take our time.”

Mother says that our maid works on “Swazi time,” which has no relation to the chime of the hours on our clock in the lounge room. Swazi time is fluid. It shifts and flows, and often stops altogether. That’s why ordinary tasks take so long. It’s not the maid’s fault, Mother says. It’s how life unfolds in the country.