Bosman ignores her. He ignores me, and he ignores Lottie. His catlike eyes narrow on Mother, who keeps her gaze pinned to a spot on the floor, a vague smile on her ruby-red mouth. She makes herself invisible. She makes herself small. She follows the rules to survive, but Bosman sees her.

“I know you,” he says in gruff English. “I know you.”

“I live in Manzini.” Mother’s voice is thin and scared. “Maybe you saw me there.”

“No.” He snaps his fingers. He’s placed her. “You’re that girl Mbali, the little flower who lived in the kaffir village. You used to wander around singing, like one of those birds I shoot from the trees.”

Birds killed for singing: Bosman’s world summed up.

Mother holds still and holds her tongue. She endures. But I can’t, for one minute longer, endure the sight of her made mute by a cruel man. I go to her side, and, of course, Lottie follows.

“Mother has a beautiful voice even now,” I say.

“Beautiful voice.” Bosman snorts. “That’s what everyone used to say. ‘Oh, what a lovely voice. Beautiful.’ She certainly thought so.”

Bosman’s sons sift through bags of rice and flour with nervous fingers. Their father’s interest in a mixed-race woman embarrasses them and horrifies me. The youngest son, in particular, is tense: his shoulders are tight and his jaw twitches, and I wonder where the daughter is hiding.

Bosman ignores his sons and leans in to Mother, voice low. “The sound of your tweeting grated on my nerves, but you never paid me any mind. Too good for the valley, you. Too proud to stay in your place till I taught you otherwise.”

I gulp for breath, and Lottie makes a shh, shh sound to calm me. The hair on my scalp prickles, and every fiber of my being tells me that the bad things that happened to Mother out in those hills were Bosman’s doing. That day on his farm, Bosman said I was born to sell myself to a man with money. The poisoned words rolled off his tongue, smooth as butter. He’d said them before. I think he said them to Mother, and he did worse to break her pride and teach her rightful place in the valley.

I imagine Mother in the crosshairs of Bosman’s rifle. A girl alone, singing to blunt the sense of danger that lurks in the forests and the tall grass. A girl alone, singing to let the world know she is alive and well, and to come and look for her if her song ever stops.

A hot, spiky rage floods through me. Lottie was right to wonder why God took Darnell and her father instead of this man. Bosman lords his power over his family, and now over Mother, who remains absolutely still, patiently waiting for the storm to pass. If I could call down lightning from the sky, I would. I want Bosman gone from the world. I take a half a step forward, ready to swing a fist. He notices me, and he smiles. Go on, his amused expression seems to say. Do it, girl. The police station is just next door.