I grew up in Dutyini, rural Eastern Cape, under the vigilant supervision of my grandparents, where water did not come from a tap but from a river, carried in buckets on women’s heads with the precision of a surgeon, careful not to spill a drop of this precious commodity.
The morning air in Dutyini was often crisp, but my grandfather’s voice could cut through it with a warmth that demanded immediate attention.” Khayalethu!” Alfred Kaiser Boyce would bellow. And from wherever I was, I would shout back, “Tatomkhulu!” and run towards him, because I already knew where he was, near the sheep kraal, and what he expected.
To an outsider, what happened next might have looked like a struggle against poverty, but to me, under his strict and watchful eye,…
