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Wame Molefhe

Go Tell the Sun

  • Павел Молчановhas quoted9 years ago
    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
  • Павел Молчановhas quoted9 years ago
    Zimbabwe. As she lies next to her husband, she remembers when she first left her country. Armed with her pass
  • Sasha Freyhas quoted9 years ago
    shawl across her sh
  • Suffian Hakimhas quoted9 years ago
    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.
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