Go Tell the Sun

the drivers of cars that sped past to give her work.
“I can wash, clean, do anything,” her eyes begged.
She would do anything to earn money – except sell her body.
The day her money

Zimbabwe. As she lies next to her husband, she remembers when she first left her country. Armed with her pass

shawl across her sh

The newsreader's mouth opens and closes, words tumble out, crashing my world: “Award-winning Motswana writer dies in car accident.”

Killed? Killed.

Ntsimane changes the channel. Why did he do that? Does he know? He couldn't. I have told no one.

I close the kitchen door and feel my legs buckle. I cling to the kitchen table. My heart pounds in my ears. How? When? I beat the eggs and sugar together faster. Jam, vinegar, flour A spoonful at a time. Sequestered in the kitchen, away from Ntsimane, I force in long deep breaths, wheeze instead. Botshelo is dead. Breathe. Breathe.

What is that noise? Sizzling – coming from the stove. The oxtail stew is burning.