By midday, Kolobetso had to send her eighteen  year old cousin to the shops for
more supplies.  The eight bags of potatoes, the packs  of Russian- sausages and
the hot-dog rolls were all gone.  The bottles of mustard and tomato sauce had
long been squeezed out. 

“You better hurry back,” Kolobetso  said  to her cousin. She sat on a wooden stool that she kept meaning to replace,  her  hips and thighs cascading down its sides. The flesh on her arms made  gentle  inconspicuous ripples as she hunched over and rummaged around in her  bosom.  First the bosom was patted through the  T-shirt and apron that she was  wearing, and then her hand went into her bra,  first lifting one breast after  another. Finally, her fingers found the parcel  that she was looking for. She  lifted it out before returning her breasts to  their rightful places. READ MORE...

"There is no dignity in dying and death, no  matter what anyone says to the contrary, but there can be some satisfaction. We   are, on a cold winter’s day, gathered around his graveside and the tears are  flowing all around me. The irony is of course that not a single person here,   except me, had even seen him in the last decade of his life, longer than that  for some. Nor do they know we were best friends, to them I am just one of his  servants." READ MORE