I wasn’t there to see the spark, but I know the fire started with the deep fryer and stretched out to kiss the bottom embroidery of my mother’s lace curtain. It extended its neck to swallow the rest of the material, destroying the hem and vintage design so that no evidence of the fabric’s artistry remained. And then the fire’s tongue tore at the first layer of the cream white paint of the ceiling, creating black soot above, like the work of a deeply disturbed painter.
The fire brushed its bristles across the kitchen, stroking the angry flames, engulfing everything: the tiny sunflowers Mama spent weeks painting on the wallpaper; the still-wet cutlery on the sink that I had rinsed after our supper of lentil soup and toast; the breadbin and, inside, the single slice of white Albany bread that had remained uneaten for days.
The fire proceeded to devour all the ingredients that had sustained our lives: raw samp and beans, loaves of white milkbread, a sack of potatoes, jars of atcha, cheese, sausages and sauces. It took everything while we slept, and I wish I had stayed asleep a little longer, but Ma Tsotetsi and her alcoholics surrounded our house, throwing stones at our windows to wake us.
I roused like a resuscitated corpse and when my nose caught the scent of the sizzling things, I shook my mother out of sleep. It took her a few seconds to smell the smoke. The air in my mother’s house was veneered by an aggressive smog that blinded both of us so that we needed our arms to navigate our own space. I had a heightened sense of sound. There was the soft roar of a burning kitchen and of a living room that seemed eager to participate. I heard things breaking, burning, voices booming outside, my own heart beating inside my chest and my mother’s coughing. Then her silence came, as if the fire had stopped suddenly and the smoke had halted its hogging of our lungs. She stood in the passage, and she watched the destruction of her childhood home. I witnessed her paralysis, as she glued her eyes to the flames.
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Tshegofatso Nkwane is a 26-year-old writer from Naledi, Soweto. After completing her studies in English literature and international relations at Wits University in 2019, she worked for Reos Partners, a global social impact company, for several years as consultant, facilitator, report writer and editor. Managing an international anti-racism project of Médecins sans Frontières and editing the PSET scenarios with JET Educational Services were two of the highlights during this time. She realised that she wanted to tell township stories and write about social justice, and is now a full-time writer and aspiring novelist. To her, the Jakes Gerwel Foundation’s call for applications for the workshop ‘felt, more than anything, like an invitation to ask for guidance. As an emerging writer, I know I need a second pair of eyes and the Kommadagga workshop offers that. I have always known that I wanted to write, but I was always shy and afraid of my own voice. I hope that exposure to other writers and the mentorship will contribute to my growth as a writer and allow me to emerge confidently in spaces I have passion for.’
