Chapter 4 — Setshego

The neighbours said she stopped playing outside the week before it happened. Just sat on the low wall by the gate, watching Mmabatho's house. Not staring — watching. The way you watch something you already know the ending of.
Nobody thought to ask her what she saw.
Mmabatho's sister came from Mabopane to collect the last of it — the plastic chairs, the good pots, the TV that still worked. She moved fast, the way people do when a place has stopped feeling like a place. The yard smelled of impepho someone had burned after, trying to clear it. It hadn't cleared.
Setshego was on the wall when the sister carried out the first box.
"O bona eng?" the sister asked. What do you see?
The child looked at the house. Then at the sister. Then back at the house.
"Ga go na selo," she said.
There is nothing there.
The sister loaded the bakkie and left before dark. Everyone on Tau Street agreed that was wise. Everyone agreed the child was strange, had always been strange, that her mother should have done something about it years ago.
Nobody asked what she meant.
There is nothing there — as in: the house is empty.
Or: there is nothing left of what was there.
Or: there was never anything to begin with.
Three different sentences. Same five words.
Setshego climbed down from the wall the evening the last box left and has not gone back.
Some endings you only understand from the outside.