Author: Moseti Brian

It isn’t exactly darkness. It is a shade between night and green as the dull silvery light of the moon tries to rise above the shrubbery of the trees. It is that color when the witches come out. I hear the door creak. I hear my mother padding about softly. I know she goes out every night. I have watched her from crack in my window. I see how she steps behind the big tree on the way to the latrine and strips naked, hiding her clothes in the branches. She then steps out as if having changed skin. Her…