The Sunday Hangman
“RAT DIED that night. By Saturday morning, he no longer gnawed on the bone, nor did he squirm, twist, and scrabble. Instead, giving off heat and bloating rapidly, Mr. Rat decayed. Zondi could just feel the swelling.
But uppermost in his mind, as he drove through the early morning mist toward the farm where Dorothy Jele worked, was the story of Mama Buza’s baby. It had seemed a perfectly good story when told by a virtuous man like Absalom Mkuzi, and yet, within minutes of Zondi’s leaving the head...man’s kraal, his instincts had taken him on that long trek to talk to Mama Buza’s former neighbors. They had said nothing to alter the crucial fact that all of Witklip believed in Izimu’s guilt as a child-stealer; they had, however, enlarged on one or two details that troubled an outsider unused to God’s taking part in police work. Details such as the baby’s miraculous condition—which could, as one old hag had observed, have been attributed to Izimu’s foul designs, along the lines of the fatter the better.MoreLess
But uppermost in his mind, as he drove through the early morning mist toward the farm where Dorothy Jele worked, was the story of Mama Buza’s baby. It had seemed a perfectly good story when told by a virtuous man like Absalom Mkuzi, and yet, within minutes of Zondi’s leaving the head...man’s kraal, his instincts had taken him on that long trek to talk to Mama Buza’s former neighbors. They had said nothing to alter the crucial fact that all of Witklip believed in Izimu’s guilt as a child-stealer; they had, however, enlarged on one or two details that troubled an outsider unused to God’s taking part in police work. Details such as the baby’s miraculous condition—which could, as one old hag had observed, have been attributed to Izimu’s foul designs, along the lines of the fatter the better.MoreLess
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