Carin Dreyer

The air was dry that afternoon, and dust blew across the old main street of Kleinzee, South Africa. I sat on the front porch of my small house, the one I moved into as a young bride when this town still rang with the clanging of machines and the voices of miners. Now, silence fills the gaps between the few remaining souls. I’m 85, and the days feel both heavy and hollow.

It’s the tourists who stirred the memories — those who come to see the ghost of the diamond boom. They walk around with cameras, capturing cracked roads and sun-bleached signs, not knowing the real weight of this place. Then, a week ago, a man arrived, taller and more solid than any tourist, his deep black skin glowing, his eyes flashing white.

I recognized him instantly. Simba.

He had worked with my late husband for decades in diamond processing. Back then, cruel lines divided us — whites in one settlement, coloreds in another, blacks furthest away. I knew it was wrong. I stayed quiet. I baked cakes, smiled at church, pretending life was good.

Simba was a good worker — patient, diligent. I saw my husband strike him once, maybe twice. Those memories cling to me like dust in old clothes. One year, a diamond went missing. Simba was blamed. No proof, no fair hearing. He vanished into prison and came out years later, hollow-eyed and thinner.

After my husband died, guilt grew inside me. I stopped pretending. I whispered apologies into the night, knowing they came too late.

When Simba returned to Kleinzee, I invited him for tea. He sat across from me, hands wrapped around a chipped mug, speaking softly about his family — his wife, sons, granddaughters. He spoke without bitterness. It undid me.

That night, alone in bed, I thought about the men like my husband — harsh at work, tender at home — and women like me, who stayed silent.

Kleinzee is crumbling now, folding in on itself, as if trying to erase what it once was. But I remain, breathing the same air, carrying the weight of memory, wishing I had been braver.