At that early juncture in the case, it seemed justice was moving apace. The police were saying the trial could begin within the month. But since then not much has happened. Every subsequent court date has been a pro forma affair that led to a continuance. The prosecution says further investigation is required. And, of course, the main perpetrators still have not been caught.

The case against Evens Matamisa was dropped. Witnesses had implicated a man with dreadlocks called Rasta. But Diepsloot has many men sporting that hairstyle, and a good many of them answer to that same nickname. Matamisa was merely the best known of the Rastas, and he was able to prove he was elsewhere that day. Murder charges remain against Walter Baphadu, however. Several witnesses, including Dipuo and Siphiwe, say he was at the scene, though no one claims that he actually struck a blow. When Baphadu was released on $150 bail, Golden and I tried to prod him into telling us what, if anything, he knew. At one point, I came on tough like a TV cop in the interrogation room. “We’ve got 13 witnesses who place you there,” I said, raising my voice and inflating the number. But Baphadu still denied he was present.

Dipuo remains in school, staying late sometimes for an extra lesson in her favorite subject, accounting. Did she ever weep any private tears about what she had done? I don’t know. She has a boyfriend now, which pleases her unemployed mother. Dipuo’s father is long dead, and he had run out on the family anyway. Money is a constant point of stress, and the new boyfriend is in his late 20s and earns the steady wages of a miner. Sometimes they do not see him for a month or so, but when he does visit he usually leaves $100. “He is very generous,” Rosina says gratefully.

Golden, too long a chronicler of dismal endings, predicts that this romance will lead to grief. “Dipuo will one day find a boyfriend her own age, and then the trouble begins,” he said. “The mother needs the money. The miner has made an investment. Someone will want to kill someone else.”

One recent Sunday afternoon, we found Siphiwe wandering the streets. His mother threw him out of the house a few weeks before. He had been stealing from her for a long time, but his latest offense went too far, taking her boyfriend’s sneakers. Siphiwe was wearing the misbegotten shoes, one with an orange lace, the other green. But he was without his usual bravado. Estranged from his mother, he had no one to watch the calendar for him and had missed two court dates. Scared now that the police would jail him, he spoke in barely a whisper, his head encased in a brown hoodie. He looked boyish. He seemed tired. He needed a bath.

It was early afternoon, and Golden was still dressed up from his morning at church, a solid pink tie knotted at his collar. The clothes seemed to enhance his rectitude. “You have to go to your mom on bended knee and ask for forgiveness,” he lectured. “The problem is you apologize, and then after a few days you do something else wrong, and she loses trust.” He paused to allow the words to penetrate. “In jail, you won’t like it, Siphiwe. It won’t be like Diepsloot, where you can run around.”

I wasn’t sure I would ever see the teenager again. Once, he told me that killing Farai had been “fun.” It angered me, but I said nothing. Mob violence wasn’t mindless; there were minds at work, and these minds were self-justifying. The murder, of course, was hardly Siphiwe’s fault alone. Others also guided the mob, others confronted Farai and struck the deadlier blows. But he was the culprit conveniently at hand. A surge of harsh words rushed into my throat, but I managed to say only, “You shouldn’t have killed Farai.”