By Angel Joseph
I. The Dare
It began the way most bad decisions in a small village do — with a dare around a late-night fire.
“You won’t even last an hour,” Kabo said, holding the paraffin lamp under his chin to make himself look like a ghost. “That place eats people.”
“Eish, stop lying,” Jada shot back, folding her arms . “It’s just an old house.”
Kagiso had his arm around her shoulders, as usual. He pulled her closer.
“A witch’s house,” Eli murmured. “My cousin told me when they passed by at night, they could hear Mme Mokgalo shouting and beating her thokolosi. He swears he heard it cry like a child.”
Kagiso grinned. “Then let’s see what’s inside. Ga gona boloi — no such thing as witchcraft, right?”
That’s how the four friends — Jada, Kagiso, Eli, and Kabo— found themselves walking the dusty road to the edge of Mmadinare just after midnight. The moon hung low, fat and yellow, lighting up the mophane trees and thorn bushes. Dogs barked in the distance, and crickets filled the silence between their footsteps.
Everyone in the village knew Mokgalo House. The old place sat crooked under mophane trees, its roof caving like tired shoulders. Mme Mokgalo had died twenty years ago, but no one had touched the house since. People said it “breathed” at night — windows fogging up from the inside, curtains fluttering though no wind blew.
The gates weren’t locked. They never were. Nobody in Mmadinare was brave — or foolish — enough to steal from a witch.
Kagiso pushed the rusted gate and it moaned open.
“The rules are simple,” Kabo said. “Re tsena mo teng. A gona ope yo siayang. No phones. We stay until sunrise, guys.”
They didn’t even need to touch the door — it swung inward before they reached it, like the house was expecting them, but still the four friends weren’t yet scared.
***
II. The House
The air inside was heavy and wet, like breathing through a damp cloth.
“Eish,” Jada muttered, sweeping her torch across the bare cement walls, scratched with fingernails as if someone had tried to claw their way out. “Smells like something died in here.”
“Or is still living in here,” Kagiso joked, but his voice cracked.
The sitting room looked frozen in time. A reed mat curled in the corner. A broken clay pot lay smashed on the floor. And above the dusty mantle, a faded black-and-white photograph of Mme Mokgalo still hung crooked. Her eyes were sharp as knives, following them wherever they moved.
They unrolled their sleeping bags on the floor. The house creaked as if settling in to watch.
Eli ran his hand along the staircase railing. “They say this house whispers your secrets. Things you’ve never told a soul.”
“Ke maaka dilo tseo,” Kabo scoffed.
But then it came — soft and thin, like wind squeezing under a door.
“…Leshano…”
The four froze.
“Did you hear that?” Jada whispered.
“Nope,” said Kagiso— too quickly.
But they had heard.
***
III. The First Secret — Jada
At 1:12 a.m., the whisper returned.
“She kissed him back…”
Jada’s face went pale.
“What did it say?” Kagiso asked.
“Nothing,” she muttered.
But Eli frowned. “Wait…you kissed Kabo?”
“What? No—”
Kagiso looked shocked. “Wait, what?”
“It was one time,” Jada said, voice low. “Last year. I didn’t think it mattered.”
Kagiso stood up. “You were always making fun of him! You said no one would date him! Now you like him or something?”
“I don’t! It was stupid. I didn’t mean—”
“You really said no one would date me?” Kabo’s voice was sharp with anger. “Does he know you told me you were bored with him and wanted someone more exciting?”
“That’s a lie!” Jada shouted. “I only kissed you out of pity…”
“You liked it.” The voice again. Soft. Smiling.
Kagiso stormed out of the room.
The house creaked, satisfied. Their friendship—once solid—now trembled under the weight of secrets they kept from one another.
***
IV. The Second Secret — Kagiso
At 2:47 a.m., Kagiso crept to the kitchen for water. His torch beam caught an enamel basin overturned on the counter, smelling faintly of sour sorghum.
Then it came — cold and clear.
“You took it…”
He turned. “Who’s there?”
“You stole from your mom. You let her think it was your sister.”
Kagiso’s hands trembled. “Shut up.”
“She cried for days. You watched.”
He backed away, heart pounding. “It was just money. I needed it.” He ran back to the others, face pale.
“What’s wrong?” Eli asked.
“Nothing,” Kagiso muttered,. “This place is cursed.”
But the house wasn’t cursed — it was listening.
***
V. The Third Secret — Eli
At 3:33 a.m., Eli vanished.
They found him upstairs, standing in front of a cracked mirror in what must have been Mme Mokgalo’s bedroom. The room smelled of mothballs and something rotten.
“Eli?” Jada whispered.
He didn’t turn.
“O tlogetse ngwana yo mongwe a swa…”
The voice was louder now, almost human.
“You watched your brother sink,” it hissed. “You didn’t move.”
Eli’s reflection was crying, but his real face was empty. “I was just a kid,” he whispered. “Ke ne ke tshogile….”
“O ne osamo batle. One o eletsa gore okabe asa tsholwa.”
“No!”
“Is that true?” asked Kabo. “We all knew you didn’t like your little stepbrother, but…”
“But not enough to let him drown.” Jada looked at Eli. “He was just a kid!”
The mirror shattered with a sound like a scream.
***
VI. The Fourth Secret — Kabo
At 4:45 a.m., Kabo stepped into the hallway, heart pounding.
“Ntu ee e rileng ne lona..? Ekabe re satla kwano,” he muttered nervously.
The whisper returned, slow, deliberate:
“O ne wa mo utlwisa bothoko… o ne wamo kgama.”
The house revealed the darkest corner of Kabo’s soul — he had once beaten his little cousin until he passed out. It was meant as a slap, but it went too far, and he let it happen without telling anyone, hiding the truth behind a mask of laughter and bravado.
***
VII. The House Remembers
By 4:15 a.m., the candle burned low. The house seemed to breathe with them, walls swelling and sighing.
“I’m leaving,” Jada whispered.
“We can’t,” Kagiso said. “Not until the sun comes up.”
The mud walls were cracked and scarred, as if something had clawed at them from the inside. Floorboards swelled and split, coughing up dust. A dark, warm draft hissed through the cracks — like breath.
“All of you are the same,” the house whispered. “Secrets wrapped in skin. You came to play. Now you stay.”
Mme Mokgalo’s portrait rattled in its frame. Her painted smile looked wider now, almost alive.
***
VIII. The Betrayal
At 5:30 a.m., Jada slipped away from the others and knelt in front of the portrait.
“I know what you want,” she whispered. “You don’t need all of us. You just want to be fed.”
The house pulsed around her, wood groaning like an old woman stretching her arms.
“Take them,” Jada said, voice trembling. “Let me go.”
The whisper brushed her ear like cold breath: “Wa itumelela tota… You really mean that?”
“Yes,” Jada said firmly. “I mean it.”
From the other room, Kabo’s voice rose in a strangled yell. The walls tightened, doorframes shrinking like closing jaws. He thrashed as unseen hands pinned him to the floor — screaming Jada’s name — until his voice cut off with a wet snap.
Kagiso bolted for the front door. The knob seared his skin like hot iron, and the door slammed shut in his face. The house exhaled, and the ceiling collapsed on him, burying his body in timber and dust. His fingers twitched once, then stilled.
From the far corner, Eli’s body scraped against the earth floor, restless under the house’s curse. His broken breath rattled until it, too, stopped.
Jada didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She kept her eyes on Mme Mokgalo’s portrait as the floor beneath her seemed to sigh with pleasure.
***
IX. Sunrise
At 5:59 a.m., the voice came again, rich and full.
“Lo tlile ka boitshepho. Mme lo fitlhetswe ke boammaaruri. Now you know each other. Now you know yourselves. Now you belong to me.”
The front door eased open with a long sigh. Sunlight spilled through the doorway, cutting across the dusty floor.
Only Jada stepped outside. She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just walked barefoot down the sandy path past the mophane trees as roosters crowed in the waking village.
Behind her, the house whispered softly: “…Boela gape… come back soon…”
And if you pass Mokgalo House today, you’ll see something strange. The roof no longer sags. The walls look brighter, stronger — like they’ve been fed.
But Jada?
She walks through Mmadinare with a hollow smile,
because every night she dreams of Kagiso’s burning hands,
of Kabo’s neck snapping like dry wood,
of Eli’s broken body dragging itself toward her.
And she knows:
she fed the house.
She betrayed her friends.
And she will live with that forever.
Angel Joseph is a writer based in Gaborone West, Botswana. She writes poems that explore themes of love and longing, pain and resilience, nature, culture and ancestry, self-discovery, identity, loss and heartache, dreams, memory and imagination, healing and growth, roots and heritage, modern life and social reflection, lost love, regret and closure, hope, and life’s journey.
Her work was recognized in Rise Africa Newspaper, where she was named third-place winner for best poem with “The Thing We Never Say”. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading novels and poetry, drawing, painting, and doing athletics.
Petlwana Journal of Creative Literature and the Arts 
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