Khaya walks slowly through the fields where the sun beats down in anger on hardened soils that were once rich in rain and green. One foot and then the next she tells herself, over and over, with every step as she gets closer to the place she is looking for. She will know it when she sees it, but she keeps having to remind herself to look. One step and then another.  The load she is carrying against her breast does not stir as she stumbles for a moment, almost losing her footing. She steadies herself. It does not stir. She tightens her hold. And it does not stir. She comes across a rock that seems as though it might not be moved except b y excessive force and so there she stops to place her bundle on the ground before her. The wind blows softly, pulling at the cheap white cloth and exposing a still silent face, eternally mute and breathless. With her bare hands she begins to loosen the ground before her, digging slowly, without noticing as the hardened soil cuts into her knuckles, causing them to bleed. Silent tears creep to the corners of her eyes and spill over, almost invisible, leaving only salty tracks before disappearing into nothing.  She places the blood-stained buncdle into the hole that has ravaged her fingers, and slowly pushes the soil back to cover it.  It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. It happens all the time. It doesn’t matter…