A thin orange line shines behind Ngotshe mountain where Mama got lost. Mondli, Gogo’s rooster sits on top of the chicken house and goes kukulukuku, kukulukuku like he is shout at the sun for coming up. I open my wrapper from the side table and throw it around my body. Gogo is in the kitchen making porridge. “Njalo Mondli must be the one to wake you up, what girl wakes up after the first light?”
“Sorry, sorry, fetch the bucket!” She look back to the stove, black and white pieces of hair sneak out under her duku. I pull the door, pull harder and it crrrrrs but it not open.
“What?” She spin around, steam curl up from the spoon in her hand covered in white porridge. “It’s a door Amahle, kanti unjani lo mwana?” She is always asking: What is wrong with this child. She grip the door handle and in one pull the door shake open and her breast shake like clothes on the washing line when wind blow too much. “Bucket, now!”
Sizakhela and Thabile are already dressed in their swimming coshumes and towels hang around the necks. “Ntandane, unjani?…You, I’m talking to you, how many orphans live in this yard?” Sizakhela ask. Thabile burst out laughing, her head up in the sky and chin up over me. “Kodwa Sizakhela.”
“What?” She put her hand on her chest. “am I lying?…do you have parents?”
Mondli shout in my ear and the sun blind me- why are they no nice to me? Is the big English, it make them better.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Exactly, and we don’t play with orphans, okay?”
“Amahle, ibhagede!”Gogo shout from the house.
Thabile laugh. “Get to work orphan!”
Sizakhele’s big bum go shwi shwi shwi from right to left and Thabile so high and too big for a girl of 12-years she block the sun and Mondli stop kukulukuku and when Thabile is gone the sun come back and Mondli kukulukuku futhi.
I press my eyes together, I’m not cry they will laugh if I cry, I’m not cry. I pick up the white bucket and sneak into the house.