Tambo looked at the dusty red soil that flowed between the government houses, and he thought about the colour red. He remembered the grand velvety richness of the cover of the little red book his father had proudly brought back with him from his training in Angola, and he remembered the sadly worn red in his mothers eyes when she explained that his father would never be coming home again.

He thought about the intricate patterns of tiny beads his grandmother would weave while he sat listening to her stories next to the river, and how the shiny new red beads had somehow made her designs come to life. He remembered too the first time he saw her prick her finger and a glistening drop of red, swelling from her the tip of her finger, had looked so like a bead before it grew too fat and fell into sand.

He remembered that it was around that time too, that he had started to dream the future.

The very first dream was terrifying. He dreamed of the river, but now the water was black and the banks draped in a blanket of mist. He tried to turn away, but as he turned so too did the river. In the black of the water flowed the unknown of the night, and Tambo had been afraid of the dark since before his first memory. A voice spoke quietly yet firmly though his own lips, a voice that Tambo did not recognize. “Do not fear the water”, the voice whispered, “fear the things that live inside the water”. Tambo saw his favorite female cousin, Zinzi, appear through the mist, and walk slowly and with closed eyes toward the waters edge. The watching Tambo understood that a creature with many teeth would reach out from the water and would snatch her from life, and he tried to shout a warning but his voice was no longer his own. Watching in mute horror he saw the mist flow to cover her once more, then draw open again to reveal just red rippled water.

When Tambo awoke, every muscle in his young body was tense with the terror of his dream. Sitting upright in his bed, he looked out of the window to see the first blush of the new sun and he knew that Zinzi was already on her way to fetch water from the river. “Grandmother”, he had called out as loudly as his wavering voice would allow, but the muted screams from the river arrived before his Grandmother.

For a long time Tambo carried the guilt of what he had seen as he slept, believing that because he had dreamed this horror before it had happened that somehow he was responsible. If he had never dreamed the terrible creature, it would never have existed. Tambo was both scared and ashamed: if he had never imagined Zinzi’s death, it would never have happened.

One morning some years later, as he awoke, his Grandmother was sitting softly perched on the end of his bed. She said “Tambo, I had a dream about you last night. The ancestors showed me that you carry a terrible burden that is not yours to carry. They told me that you hold the guilt of a deed that never was”. Gently she explained that his real burden was to know the future; and that he, like her, was a sangoma.

Tambo sighed deeply, his beloved grandmother was long dead and he still had much to prepare; today was his first very important ceremony.

The goat and the sheep that were to be sacrificed later in the day arrived. They had been herded by the two young boys he had sent, between the narrow dusty streets that divided the equally dusty properties. No one could afford fences, so it was impossible to see where a property began and a road ended, or indeed where on man’s property became another’s. And when it rained, the red mud from everyones properties mingled and fled down the narrow river-streets.

The nature of the ceremony was such that no person could be barred, and the problem of the ceremony was that people were curious. People would come to the ceremony, many people, people he never knew. Tambo remembered when he was a thwasa, learning to be a sangoma in the rolling green hills of Kwazulu-Natal, how everybody knew everybody else and there were no strangers. It was just that some people you knew a little less than others.

Tambo shrugged; there was nothing to be done about it, he would have to continue regardless.

He dug a small hole and knelt in front of it. Swigging a large mouthful of home-made beer from a shallow dish, He sprayed the beer first to his right, then to his left, and then directly in front of him. Picking up a bottle of commercial beer, he repeated the process. It was while he was sprinkling snuff into the hole and praying that he knew he was in trouble. His ancestors were just not responding. They were not answering his call; and Tambo felt truly alone for the first time in his life.

With so many people watching, Tambo felt he had no option but to continue. At home, they would have understood. They would have nodded and and murmured assent. They would have agreed that it was the right thing to do, to abandon the ceremony if the ancestors decided not to come. Here, Tambo faced only derision and ridicule.

Tambo picked up his ceremonial spear, and walked towards the goat. Drums had started beating, and though the rhythm was familiar, the drums were played by people with faces he recognized but never knew. Then he looked at those holding the goat upright for the killing stab of the spear, and noticed that though two were close neighbors, he had only ever nodded greetings and had never spoken of anything important to either of them.

Of it’s own volition his hand stabbed, and the goat cried out a great and strangely plaintive cry. A fountain of bright red blood spurted over Tambo’s hand and mingled with the dust as a tear etched a track down the side of his cheek.

A small dog ran from between the legs of the onlookers, and started lapping the spilled blood.

In that moment, Tambo knew the terrible cost of the house he had been given.