The fire had not burned since yesterday.Luyanda Nxumalo sat outside the small mud hut, staring at the three cooking stones as if they might suddenly come back to life. Grey ash rested beneath them, cold and defeated. Winter wind moved through the yard, lifting dust into the air.Inside the hut, his grandmother coughed.The sound was thin and tired, like everything else in their lives.Luyanda was fourteen. He did not know his parents. He only knew Gogo — her rough hands, her quiet prayers, her stories told beside the fire at night. She was all he had.“Gogo?” he called softly as