EPISODE 01
[NOMAZA's P.O.V]
Poverty is despised by everyone. No matter what happens in life, no one ever dreams of being poor. When a person becomes too poor, people slowly begin to avoid them. At first it begins with small things—people greeting you less warmly, people looking away when they see you coming. Eventually they begin to dislike you, not because you have done anything wrong, but because your struggles remind them of a life they fear.
When you are poor for too long, people start seeing you as a burden. They become tired of hearing the same request for help again and again. Even kind people can grow impatient when someone comes to them every day asking for food, or asking for something small just to survive.
But villages are supposed to be different.
In the villages, people share. They share their food, their homes, their firewood, and sometimes even their last meal. When a family is in trouble, neighbors are supposed to gather and help them stand again.
That is why it feels strange to me.
It is strange that the same people who share with each other so easily can completely ignore a household that is suffering from terrible hunger. Instead of helping them, they whisper about them. They gossip behind their backs. They create stories about them.
And sometimes they turn those stories into hatred.
I am sixteen years old. I live with my grandmother, who is eighty, and my older brother who is twenty. Our house is small and quiet. Like many homes that no longer have a man to provide for them, we are poor.
Very poor.
What hurts the most is not the hunger, but the way people treat us. No one in the village truly cares about what happens in our home. No one comes to ask if we have eaten. No one offers help anymore. Sometimes it feels like the whole village secretly celebrates our suffering.
Instead of helping us, they call us terrible names.
The most common accusation is that we are witches.
I do not know where this story began, or why people believe it. But it follows us everywhere we go. Children shout it in the streets. Women whisper it when we pass them. Even some of the men speak about us with suspicion.
My brother hates it more than anyone.
Whenever someone insults us, he fights them. I always tell him to stop, because fighting only makes things worse. But he refuses to listen. In his eyes, protecting our family is more important than keeping peace.
And honestly… that is something I admire about him.
Even at school I cannot escape the insults. Some children refuse to sit next to me. Others laugh when they see me. A few even throw things at me sometimes.
But there is one person who never treats me that way.
My friend Sandiswa.
Sandiswa is kind and brave. Whenever someone tries to bully me, she stands between us without hesitation. She argues with them, even when there are many of them and only one of her.
Sometimes I wonder why she risks so much just to defend me.
Today the sun is hot and the sky is clear. It is late afternoon, and I am walking toward the river to fetch water. The path is dusty beneath my feet as I climb the small hill that leads down to the riverbank.
As I reach the top, I see them.
A group of girls my age are standing near the water. Some are washing buckets, while others are laughing and playing in the shallow river.
The moment I see them, I already know something unpleasant is about to happen.
Still, I keep walking.
I do not have another choice. We need water at home.
As I move closer, the laughter slowly fades. Their eyes follow me. The air around the river suddenly feels cold and unfriendly.
"What is this thing doing here?" one girl asks loudly.
She pretends she is speaking to her friends, but her eyes are fixed directly on me.
"Maybe she lost her monkey," Nontombi says, laughing. "And now she thinks she will find it here."
The other girls burst into laughter.
I say nothing.
I have heard worse before. Insults like these are part of my everyday life. Even though they still hurt, I have learned to hide my feelings.
If the river belonged to them, I would turn around and leave immediately.
But no one owns this water.
I quietly place my bucket on the ground and wait for my turn.
Suddenly, Nontombi walks over and kicks my bucket.
It rolls down the slope and falls into the river with a splash.
For a moment I freeze.
Should I confront her? Should I ignore her and simply go get my bucket?
While I am still thinking, I lift my eyes to ask why she did that.
Before I can say a single word, a hand slaps me across the face.
The blow lands directly between my eyes. My head jerks backward and the world spins for a moment.
"You are not welcomed here," Nontombi says coldly, pointing at me.
She spits on the ground.
"But why did you slap me?" I ask softly, wiping tears from my eye.
My face burns with pain.
"Uzokwenza ntoni gqwirhakazi ndini—what are you going to do, witch?" Namhla says.
She rolls up her sleeves and begins walking toward me.
Something inside me snaps.
All the anger I have swallowed for years suddenly rises to the surface. My chest feels tight and hot.
Before I can stop myself, I charge at her.
We crash into each other and begin throwing punches. Our bodies slam into the ground as we roll across the rocks and dirt.
The other girls begin screaming.
I keep punching.
Punch after punch after punch.
Suddenly, I realize Namhla is no longer holding onto me.
Breathing heavily, I stand up and wipe blood from my mouth.
"Namhla?" I whisper.
I look around, expecting to see her standing somewhere nearby, maybe picking up a stone to throw at me.
But she is nowhere.
The girls have stopped screaming.
Instead, they stare behind me with wide, terrified eyes.
Slowly… I turn around.
My heart stops.
Namhla lies in the shallow river between two rocks. Her body is still. The water moves gently around her arms.
She does not move.
A cold fear grips my chest.
Have I killed her?
"Wenze ntoni—what have you done?" Nontombi shouts as she runs toward the river.
Panic fills my mind.
The girls will run back to the village. They will tell the elders everything. The men will come here angry and ready to punish me.
I know how the men in this village deal with people they believe are witches.
They will not listen to explanations.
They will kill me.
For a moment I hesitate.
Should I wait here and face them?
Or should I run?
My feet begin moving before my mind can decide.
I run.
But I do not run toward the village.
Instead, I run toward the dark forest not far from the river. Branches scratch my arms as I push deeper into the trees. And as I run, one thought repeats itself in my mind again and again.
It is better to be killed by an animal I do not know…
than to be killed by the men of my own village.