T he last colour had long since drained from the sky, and the Swartberg stood black and silent against a deepening indigo, when Oom Koos, seventy four now and a little more bent than the year before, carried his chair out onto the stoep to watch for them. He had learned, since that evening with [...]

T he sun was dropping toward the Swartberg range, bleeding orange into the thorn scrub, when the first of them slid down a sunray like a droplet finding the underside of a leaf. Oom Koos , seventy-three years old, heart and hands worn from all he has carried , was sitting on his stoep with [...]