IT WOULD BE wonderful if every child had a carefree, fun-filled childhood. I know this, because I did. Day was a time for playing games, climbing trees, roaming hills and valleys, and hunting for edible roots and berries. And when sun went to her mother and our mothers called us home as the stars started popping out to twinkle and wink up in the sky, we ran home. Gleefully, we ran home to grandma – not mama. Mama called us in – called us home. But, in our hearts and minds, without any doubt, we knew she only called us to go to grandma, and that it was she to whom we were running. Grandma didn't have to invite us. We knew she was sitting there, the bright-burning fire before her, waiting for us. Yes, the fire and grandma waited for us as mama called us back home. So we ran back home and joined makhulu, making a semi-circle around the fire with its three-legged pot. Our mouths watering, the smell of whatever was cooking in that pot making us salivate, our eyes glued to the majestic figure huddled with back slightly bent, stout, strong, ready … then, as soon as we were settled, quiet, our ears pulled us to the words pouring out of makhulu's mouth:

‘Kwathi ke kaloku ngantsomi …’

At once, all thought of food flew from our minds as we wandered far away … seeing what makhulu painted in such vivid manner, her voice rising to the sky, chasing the moon, or falling so-so-so soft and faint, as a child hears the stalking beast … stealthy … slow … ever so slowly coming closer, getting ready to –

Today, I tell stories. Write stories. I doubt I would do so had I not had the childhood I’d enjoyed.