A noble blood sacrifice

Home is where the heart is

I make my living at the plastic production plant. In the neighboring Khesani District. I'm an injection moulder with 3 years' experience. Couldn't make it to varsity to acquire an associate Degree but still got the position. People actually believe that "dark forces" were involved in my getting the job. But it was really just hard work and believing in myself. And following my mentors instructions. I've learnt a lot doing this job. I feel like my ancestors chose it for me. To complement my spiritual abilities. And to make a decent income.

I have a one bedroom apartment I'm renting during the course of every month. It's a twenty minute walk from the hospital. And a twenty minute taxi ride from work. But home is where the heart is. And I can't resist staying away for too long. I make sure to work overtime so I can accumulate a considerable amount of days to spend at home on the last week or so of every month. It doesn't always work out that way. Being that my colleagues are human and all. So I tolerate their short comings as long as I need to. But my patience is wearing thin.

I have two younger sisters. Lesedi is 6 years my junior and Naledi 7 years respectively. They like to pretend they're twins. Finishing each others sentences. Dressing identically. Cuddling each other. To the outside eye it might seem strange as they have marked physical differences. But I grew up watching the whole process. They have clung to each other since the youngest one learnt to walk. Their clinginess is normal to me as a result. The only person they cling to more, is my mother.

My mother stays indoors most of the time. So of course my sisters do the same. I am markedly darker than all of them. Kissed by the rich sun of the Lenaka Province. I'm not black though. Just a darker, stronger shade of brown. A contrast to the almost pale yellow skin tone of the women in my life. Reminiscent of the oral legends of the first rain queens and their apparent lightened complexions earned through countless years of seclusion. Almost identical stories. Except that my mothers reason for not leaving the house was a less spectacular one.

She had suffered a great fall many years back. Slipped on a wet rock while coming down from Badimo Ba Lla. They were still fetching water in those days and had to ascend at least a quarter of a kilometer to get to it. It streamed down an icicle stream from the mouth of a cave higher up in the mountain. Nobody knew how the ice was forming in this tropical part of the world. Many theories were abound but none were ever proven.

If the ice dried up so did the water source. Then there would be an inconsistent line of traffic when word came out that it was back. Bodies rushing up disturbed the ones traversing down, who would by now be carrying heavy buckets of water on their heads while trying to maintain their balance. This while descending down a slippery cliff face. Avoiding shoulder bumps all at the same time.

These outdated living conditions were before the borehole system was instituted by the municipality. For us and other neighboring villages like ours. We couldn't fetch water from the river. It had become unfit for consumption a long time ago when mining and industry boomed in the province. As the population grew and the water supply remained the same, fetching water became more perilous. After a bad step while trying to avoid someone, my mother tumbled down at least 13 meters of jagged rock. She stopped with a painful thump on a human sized slab at the bottom of the mountain. We had left my then 3 and 2 year old sisters at a neighbours house and I was literally jogging behind my father as he giraffed ahead of me.