PITSO

Chapter One

PULA

Nkhono always used to tell me that the rain symbolises a fresh start. That with rain, everything bad is wiped from the face of the earth and we have a chance to start off good, to make something good.

I believed her at some point, and I continued believing her. She may have not been a hundred percent correct at all times, but she was wise, and I trusted her wisdom.

"Ngwanaka, etsa hantle leha pula e sa ne," she'd often say, "Leba letsatsi le leng le le leng joala ka pula e nele bosiung bo fetileng."

The rain came pouring down on the night of the fifteenth, the second night after Kgopotso's disappearance. I was pacing up and down my room, a vicious never-ending cycle. Mama walked into the room, holding a cup of tea.

She placed it on the nightstand, sat on the bed and hopelessly watched me lose my mind. She no longer had words to say. No one could comfort anyone. The silence was eating everyone up and no one knew the words that would make things better.

"Ba tlameha ho mo fumana joale. Ho se ho fetile matsatsi a mabeli," I muttered. The rain poured even heavier and the wind's howling felt stronger, almost like it was screaming with us.

Mama stopped me in my tracks, handing me the cup of tea. She had this look I've never seen before, a combination of fear and sadness.
"Noa," she stated, still holding up the cup. The tea soothed it's way down my throat, something I never thought I needed.

I was almost gulping it down, not caring about the burn. "Pontsho," mama called out my name, but I didn't want to hear her. Burning was better than whatever this was, it was better than not knowing, better than pacing up and down, better than -

"Pontsho," she repeated, now grabbing the cup from me. The remaining tea came splashing down and the tears in my eyes followed right after, slowly making it's way down my face.

She held onto me, her own tears making it's way down my head buried in her chest. Without Kgopotso, the world stopped. Nothing was right. Not even Nkhono's beloved rain was wiping anything away.

"Mapolesa a fihlile," Jomo stood by the door. We both stared at him before rushing to the door. They sat in the living room as Mama prepared something to eat. A big bowl of scones she had made yesterday, and tea cups were placed on the table.

"O kae mora wa ka?" I began. He sipped on the cup of tea before placing it back on the table.

"Ke masoabi empa -''

"Ha o eso arabe potso ya ka"

"Ke ne ke le haufi le ho e araba"

"O kae Kgopotso?"

"Ha re so mo fumane"

"Joang? Hobaneng o sa etse mosebetsi wa hao?"

"Mme re leka kahohle kamo re ka kgonang"

"Ho leka? Ha ke batle o leke! Ke batla o fumane more waka!"

"Pontsho, theola moea," Mama gently touched me. The words said after were no longer heard. I couldn't focus on anything that was being said. I shouldn't have let him go; I shouldn't have assumed he'd come back. Something happened.

Kgopotso always knew his way back home.

Without thought, I found myself walking. Opening the front gate and letting my legs lead me. I was already soaked from the heavy rain, and I forced my way through the mud. Mama's voice was loud and Jomo's footsteps behind me were just as loud.

His little face was all I could think about. His voice was all I could hear. Something out there happened, something out there was pointing towards clues, answers, something out there -
I suddenly came to a complete halt, standing dead still.

Something out there, something out there, something out there.

I felt Jomo's hands on my shoulder, and I instantly turned.

"Noka," I blurted out, "e mo nkile."

* * *

The story of Noka Ya Ramasedi was passed down from generations to generations. Everyone knew the man behind the story, Moruti Tau - my great, great grandfather. We often went to visit his grave by the riverside where he fasted and prayed for thirty nights.

God heard him and wept with him and on the thirtieth night, his prayers were answered. A loud and powerful scream was heard from the depths of the river. Rain came pouring down - harsh and loud and after a rainbow appeared in the sky and many doves began flying over to the river.

"Moya e mebe ya metsing e ile ya lelekwa ka tsatsi leo. Modimo a bea lengeloi la hae ho lebela Noka," Nkhono once said.

It was nothing like superstitious beliefs. It was a miracle, and it changed the lives in the community forever. In my sleep, I often dreamt of the river - not of the mermaids that once lived there but of my great, great grandfather as he fasted and prayed for those mermaids to be casted out.

I somehow wished he lived long enough to know me, to teach me, to guide me. I need a miracle. I need Kgopotso's little feet running around the yard.

"Noka ha ea mo nka. Seo se ile sa fela lilemong se fetileng," Mama continued.

"Mme Tau, re ntse re etsa lipatlisiso. Ke kopa o seke oa etsa lintho ka litumela-khoela tsa hau," the cop stated.

"Ha se tumela-khoela!" My voice came out louder than I had planned for it too. I was almost fuming, trapped between believing the conclusion I had settled on and believing them for thinking I had lost my mind.

"Mme weh, ha oa lokela ho kena-kenana le lipatlisiso tsa rona. E kgahlano le molao," the cop continued.

I knew no one believed me. They didn't even believe in the story of Noka Ya Ramasedi. I looked at Mama, praying that she could somehow believe me - she could somehow believe that my son is somewhere in the depths of the river, but she didn't. To her, the mermaids had been cast out and there was in no way that he was under the water.

"Re kopa tsoarelo," Mama stated. The room suddenly became silent. The same silence that's been lingering since Kgopotso's absence. I wanted to let the tears gush out. I wanted to howl like a windy day.

"Ngwanaka," Nkhono's words still pierced in my ears like one sharp memory, "etsa hantle leha pula e sa ne. Leba letsatsi le leng le le leng joala ka pula e nele bosiung bo fetileng."
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