It is quarter to twelve. The meat is still far from ready. But the people in the yard, inside and outside the marquee, are like worms on a rotting buffalo carcass. There are voices raised in song. Vusi follows his grandfather to the mouth of the tent. When the old man sees his grandson, he hastily pulls up his mask. Too late. Vusi points an accusing finger at him. 'Who are all these people, Grandpa?’ Vusi asks.‘ I don’t know all of them,’ his grandfather replies.
‘I can recognise some faces. But many of them are unknown to me. That’s not an issue. I don’t need to know them, as I didn’t invite them.’ Who invited them then?’ Vusi asks, surprised. He thought his grandpa was in charge of the household and the celebration. ‘No one invited them.’ Vusi’s mouth falls open behind his mask. He looks at all the people around him. ‘Then why are they here? ’His grandfather laughs. ‘In the township you don’t have to be invited. When you see a marquee and people milling about the yard, you have to make a turn at the house.
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