They wanted to see it. They wanted to know how Ernesto had died. In the village of Vuca, about 500km north of Maputo, the uncles who helped raise Ernesto Nhamuave wanted to see how a mob of South Africans in an unknown township had set their son alight and watched him die.
Early on Monday morning, the Nhamuave clan sank to their knees as one of their elders, Nowa, held a bowl filled with nuts and seeds for the kuphahla ceremony.
"This is your son who went to South Africa to work. But he was killed there. He rests with you now," said Nowa, choking back tears as he scattered the seed over the grave prepared for Ernesto.
At 5am Ernesto returned home. On May 18, Ernesto and his brother-in-law, Francisco Kanze, were hunted down by a mob in Ramaphosa on the East Rand. Stabbed, beaten and bloodied, the mob left Francisco for dead before turning their attention to the tall and handsome Ernesto.
By the time journalists and police arrived on the scene, a flaming Ernesto, perched on his hands and knees, had stopped screaming.
The more than 50 family members who had gathered in small groups early yesterday morning had not moved.
As the lights approached in the distance, a wail rose as women greeted the body.
The journey had taken 24 hours, as other victims of the xenophobic violence in SA were dropped off on the way.
The truck broke down, and the body was loaded onto a bakkie for the final leg.
By 7am the number of mourners had grown to more than 200.
Some of the journalists who had witnessed the grisly scenes were there to take the story of the flaming man - also known as Mugza - to its conclusion.
"They want to see?" Jose Nhamuave asked photographer Simphiwe Nkwali. No. He could not. Since taking the pictures of Ernesto's death and tracking down Francisco to a hospital in Germiston, Nkwali had been drawn into the story.
It was he, following the body from the mortuary in Joburg, who ended up bringing the body home on the back of his rented bakkie.
A priest lit a candle as family members crammed into Ernesto's tiny reed-and-thatch home. "God, protect this body. Ancestors, we know this body should rest for a day inside his house, but we know Ernesto's spirit is already with us," the priest continued.
For a moment Ernesto's wife Hortencia raised her head from where she lay under the tarpaulin shade before disappearing inside a blanket.
At his home, hands more adept at farming falteringly sewed a black cross on the white sheet over Ernesto's coffin. Supported by elderly women, Hortencia ambled slowly towards the home she shared with her husband. Less than halfway there, strong arms grabbed hers, preventing her from falling in the fine, grey sand.
Singing hymns, the crowd moved towards the gravesite, a paraffin lamp lighting the way in the early morning. A weeping Alfabeto, held up by aunts, watched as his father's body was lowered into the grave.
Click. Click. Click. A camera lens dropped. Photographer Shayne Robinson, perched on the edge of the grave with colleagues, wept.
Nkwali's eyes welled up.
Handing over their cameras momentarily, the photographers who witnessed the nightmare picked up shovels and became part of the mourners.
As the crowd departed, the four white candles placed at the corners of the grave quickly succumbed to the gentle breeze.
Afterwards, mourners gathered in the compound. A member of the ANC's regional branch denounced the xenophobic violence sweeping South Africa, blaming gangs.
The local Frelimo party secretary called on Mozambicans not to seek revenge for the senseless killing. "We are brothers," both said.
Still, they wanted to see. Finally, the picture that had gone around the world and left South Africans shamed was shown. Ah, ah, ah. Heads shook.
Siyabonga, they said.