THE STRUGGLES AND SORROWS OF AN AFRICAN GIRL CHILD CHAPTER 8 As I watched everyone eat, a wave of disgust washed over me, the smell of raw chicken and spices hanging heavy in the air. The chicken was raw, its pale flesh glistening in the sunlight, and it looked like it would crawl out of the dish at any moment. I looked down, preferring to watch the live ones instead. My gaze fell upon a hen with about 12 chicks, their fluffy feathers ruffled as they pecked at the ground. The hen's eyes were watchful, her wings spread protectively around her brood. "Gugu, come eat," Mr. Dlamini said, his voice low and husky. "You must be hungry after your journey." I shook my head, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I'm not hungry, thank you," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. Mr. Dlamini's eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing. "You're not hungry? But you came in the morning, I know you didn't eat anything. You must be starving." I forced a smile, trying to hide my discomfort. "I'm just not feeling well, that's all," I said, hoping he would drop the subject. But Mr. Dlamini didn't seem convinced. He got up from his seat and walked over to me, his movements fluid and deliberate. "Let me get you something to eat," he said, his hand reaching out to touch my shoulder. I flinched, feeling a shiver run down my spine. "No, really, I'm fine," I protested, trying to step back. Mr. Dlamini's grip on my shoulder tightened. "Nonsense, Gugu," he said, his voice low and persuasive. "You need to eat. Come with me." I hesitated, feeling a sense of unease wash over me. But Mr. Dlamini's grip was firm, and I knew I had no choice but to follow him. As we walked to the kitchen hut, the thatched roof overhead cast dappled shadows on the ground. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke and cooking oil. Inside, the kitchen was surprisingly clean, the cement floor swept spotless. "Welcome to our kitchen, Gugu," Mr. Dlamini said, his eyes gleaming with pride. "I hope you'll be happy here." I nodded, feeling a sense of trepidation. "Thank you," I said, trying to sound sincere. After Mr. Dlamini left, I opened a worn-out cardboard box, the corrugated surface rough beneath my fingers. Inside, I found a set of silver pots and plates that looked like they had never been used. There was also a black pot with powdered red chilies, the aroma pungent and spicy. On top, a set of nice plates and cups sat stacked, their delicate patterns a testament to a bygone era. As I rummaged through the box, I spotted a 2-liter bottle of Mazoe juice on top, its bright orange label a splash of color in the dull surroundings. I grabbed a small chair to reach it and poured myself a cup, the sweet, fruity flavor a welcome respite from the tension. But the peace was short-lived. Outside, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. My father was dancing, laughing, and clapping hands with Vusa and Mr. Dlamini. His eyes were glassy, his movements unsteady. He stumbled and fell, and they rushed to help him up. "I think you should take Mr. Ncube back home," Mr. Dlamini said, his voice firm but polite. Vusa nodded and led my father away on a donkey cart, the sound of its wooden wheels creaking . Meanwhile, Mr. Dlamini came into the kitchen, a smile spreading across his face. "How are you, my wife?" he asked, his yellow teeth gleaming in the dim light. I forced a smile, trying to hide my discomfort. "I'm fine, Mr. Dlamini. Please, just call me Gugu." He chuckled, his eyes lingering on me uncomfortably. "Okay, my Gugulicious. But why are you still carrying your paper bag? Come, let me show you our bedroom. You can put your clothes there." As he stepped closer, his hand brushed against mine, and I felt a surge of unease. "I can manage, thank you," I said, trying to step back. But Mr. Dlamini's grip on my hand tightened. "Nonsense, Gugu," he said, his voice low and persuasive. "I'll show you around. You need to get familiar with the place." I hesitated, feeling a sense of trepidation. But Mr. Dlamini's grip was firm, and I knew I had no choice but to follow him. As we walked towards the bedroom, the atmosphere felt charged with tension. Mr. Dlamini's eyes seemed to bore into mine, and I felt like a trapped animal. "Welcome to our bedroom, Gugu," Mr. Dlamini said, his voice low and husky. "I hope you'll be happy here." I nodded, feeling a sense of dread wash over me. "Thank you," I said, trying to sound sincere. Mr. Dlamini's eyes gleamed with a knowing look, and he took a step closer to me. I felt my heart racing, and I knew I had to get out of there as soon as possible.