When the dead came knocking at the door

FRANCISTOWN: Right now, as I sit penning down this article, I can feel my skin crawling and my black wiry hair knotting as if an invisible hand was plaiting MaPondo on my tresses.

It is the same sneaky feeling you get when you tread gingerly past the cemetery and your fear of the unknown makes you imagine a flaming ember suddenly lodging itself between your feet. Or a white donkey with its rider clad in a white cloak overtaking you at a trot.