(Excerpt)
The lowveld sky was blue. The mountains in the distance stood out against the blue sky as if they were imposing themselves, like a greatness that stands forever looking at you. The trees make long shadows that they cast beyond our yard on the northern side of our homestead in the late afternoon. I could see the heat haze in the noontime sun when I got up from my work. I just had one chore to do for the day; prepare for the evening meal. I was washing a three-legged pot, scraping the dark soot from its bottom with a metallic scourer. After rinsing the pot I held it with its legs and threw out the water. Its legs hit the ground with a metallic thud when I put it down. I picked it up and raised its handle and struggled with it to the kitchen. It was too heavy for an eight-year-old, and as I felt it cut my hand, I said to myself, “this is hard work.” I leaned on the door of the kitchen and pulled it in and struggled to put it on the fire. I looked at my hand. It was red, where the handle of the pot had cut into it. I took the water that stood in the corner and poured it into the pot. I watched as its cleanliness settled inside and then pushed the wood together and bent down to fan the fire with my mouth. The red embers glowed and the ash went in all directions. There were ants on one of the pieces of wood. They scattered in all directions when they felt the heat. I stood up, straightened my dress, and wiped my knees.
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