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Fourteen zero seven.

I am home, doing my homework. I like to do my homework as soon as I get back to the house and my chores are done. If maybe I get busy later, with whatever I get busy with, my homework will be done and that always makes me feel relaxed, knowing that I am not behind. Most of all I want to prove to my two cousins, who are doing Grade Twelve in private school, that it does not matter whether or not you have a library, a laboratory and a school newsletter, all that matters is the brains that one has. Honestly, I didn't want to leave that school and when I was told “We cannot afford to pay for you any more.” it was like my little earth and everything that crawled upon it – my hopes, dreams, wishes and goals – had been hit by an asteroid and had all burst into flame.

I came out of that fire naked, shaking with fear. Although I didn't express it, inside I was hurting beyond any pain – it was as if I had suddenly found myself back in the Stone Age.

I sat down after a month at my new school and compared it to my old school. My new school didn't have a school bus, established sports facilities or modern sports equipment, a library or a laboratory – though it had all the books and laboratory equipment that we needed. Yes, my old school was profit-orientated, interested only in maintaining the character of the school and promoting its graduates' achievements for its own ends – they organise reunions every year to maintain a connection with their ex-students, knowing that they will then be likely to bring their own children to the school when the time is right. But even this means that they are interested in every individual who comes into the school.

I had never talked to the headmaster at my old school, but when I left he personally wanted to know why Mokgethi was leaving his school, to the extent that he came to this house to have the reasons. He was told that the reasons were financial.

“There was never any hint that you were having financial difficulties.”

He was talking to my grandmother.

“We are in difficulties now.”

“We all have difficulties in life, every one of us has difficulties, but your difficulties don't mean that Mokgethi has to leave our school. We are interested in Mokgethi's future and believe she has a very bright future. For three years she has been at our school and we have all seen how talented she is. She is one of the brightest pupils I have and for you to take her to another school, to another school where they don't understand her as we do, would be a tragedy for all of us.”

The headmaster looked at my grandmother and it was clear that she did not know what to say.

“I admit that we are expensive, yes, but you can talk to us and we will understand and continue giving Mokgethi the best education there is. As a school we need money to keep our doors open, but more than the money we are interested in education, in Mokgethi's education. And that is why I am here now. I am not looking for money; I am here looking for Mokgethi. Can I take her and educate her? I can take her with me now and she will have the best education there is and you can pay me when and only when you have the money.”

My heart leapt at the headmaster's words. I was sure that he had convinced my grandmother to send me back to my old school, but after he had gone my grandmother called Aunt Shirley and went over to her house. When she returned she told me that I couldn't go back to my old school and my little earth was hit by a second asteroid. I hate my aunt, I hate her very much because I am here and her children are in private school.

Teyageneng High School is barely a school. The morale is very low and the school committee, which is supposed to be a governing body, is powerless. The only power here is Shatale's power. This is his school and he does whatever he wants with it.

Shatale is our dictator; the worst kind of stupid dictator-principal, highly educated but completely visionless, like Sese Seko, with childlike goals and dreams and the mentality that the day he dies the whole world will die with him. By virtue of being the leader of a team of forty teachers, he affects them the way Sese Seko affected all his public servants. Even if not all of them are like him, and keep their perversions away from us, they cannot change the culture in the school if Mobuto does not want it changed. At our school, the lazy teachers enjoy their work and the hard workers fall through the cracks. And the pupils learn this from an early age – the pupils here are lazy and have no respect for their teachers.

Instead, we are influenced and inspired by people like Thabakgolo, Tebalelo and Ramahlale. Thabakgolo went to Wits but he dropped out, Tebalelo didn't pass Standard Five and Ramahlale never had any formal education – he started out as a queue marshal at the taxi rank. They may not have a degree between them, but they have all turned themselves into millionaires – they live the high life, dress expensively and drive sports cars.

Once Thabakgolo was having a heated argument with Mathata. He looked at him and said:

“You are nothing but a slave with a degree. Yes, you have a credit card, a bond and a late-model, bank-owned car, but to get these things you have turned yourself into something that is no better than a slave. You are a slave.”

He went on and on about education being a useless thing.

“Look at the President. He doesn't have any formal education but he is the President. Why? Because he has a great mind. If education had any value I would have finished my degree. People believe that I dropped out. No. I didn't. I quit university.”

Thabakgolo, Tebalelo and Ramahlale – they don't help matters. They had goals, dreams and vision and the school cannot compete with them because it lacks influential people in the right positions. And so we don't invest in our education because we think: If Ramahlale, with no education, can make the big time, then so can I. This is a belief that runs through our community.

“If I want to be a billionaire, how do I achieve it?”

A pupil at our school asked a careers advisor this question. We all died with laughter, as did the advisor, but he couldn't give the pupil an answer. Instead he passed it on to the class, asking if there was anyone in the room who thought that they could answer the question.

“You will have to start working at the taxi rank as a queue marshal, like Ramahlale did.”

This was the first answer that was given and no one said anything to contradict Nomsa, who had answered, because we all knew that it was the truth. Even the advisor nodded in agreement and smiled.

After this our career guidance session became a debate about how to become a billionaire. And the funny thing is that the more I thought about it the more I realised that the advisors hadn't achieved any of the things that they were coming to enlighten us about. It wasn't just that they didn't know how to become a billionaire, no. They also didn't know how to become a successful businessman or a biochemist or anything really ...

Anyway, what I have come to understand is that even though Teyageneng High School is one of the the worst high schools, there is still hope. Clement, Orelia, Lucy, Lefa and Thapelo passed matric with flying colours last year ... And they didn't achieve their grades by some miracle. No. They put themselves in the driving seat and drove themselves to those results. I know that I have to come up with at least four A+s because if I cannot I see only darkness. This is my motivation. I am not doing this for the school and definitely not for Shatale. This is for me.

 

Fourteen thirty.

My Aunt Sarah calls. I always get excited when she calls because she only ever calls if she has something to discuss that concerns us – me and her.

“Hello,” I say excitedly, trying to figure out what the call is about.

“What? What is happening?”

“Nothing.”

“What are you doing?”

After playing around for a bit, she asks what I am planning for my birthday. I have not planned anything and I tell her as much. She says that she will donate six hundred rand so I can enjoy my day and that she will try to come by and see what I decide to do with the money.

I smile, imagining all kinds of things.

“Do not get too excited, you know that your grandmother can still say no to whatever you are thinking.”

I want to tell her not to worry, that I have learned how to get around her and live under her roof without conflict.

Kevin sends a short message:

Self-introspection. Do I lie to girls? Yes. Will I lie again? Given. Do I have a reason to lie 2 u? Yes. Am I lying 2 u? No. Then what am I doing to you? Trying to win your heart. 4 what? Um, because I love you, because I want you.

This is a well-cooked message that took time to put together. I look at it and smile. He is an advanced liar but he isn't taking me in.

 

Sixteen twenty-six.

Thabakgolo calls me several times but I don't answer – I don't want to talk to him. He keeps calling and eventually I answer.

“Can I see you now?”

“No.”

A pause.

“Your grandmother is not home, your uncle is not home, so why can't I come to your house?”

I wonder how he knows that my grandmother is not home ... She didn't say where she was going, only that she wouldn't be home when I came back from school and wouldn't be home until late on Sunday. How does he know this?

“I have my period.”

This is a lie but I can't think of any other way to avoid him.

“Who said that I wanted to see you for that? I just wanted to see my sweetheart. Are you always thinking about sex?”

I am scared but I still somehow manage to smile, almost believing him.

I used to think Thabakgolo wasn't interested in me in a sexual way. Often when I am talking with a male somebody, he will be looking at my breasts. Even when I talk to my pastor, most of the time he will be looking at my breasts or stealing an occasional glance at my midriff. It becomes worse if I am wearing tight jeans; then he cannot stop swallowing his saliva as his eyes wander between my thighs – it is obvious that he is thinking things as he always loses the conversation's direction. Thabakgolo, however, always maintained eye contact when we talked. It was as if the look in my eyes was the only thing that mattered to him and the fact that he didn't show any interest in me sexually made me feel safe. I felt that he was like a brother to me. He had me fooled.

Then, one day when I was in his car, he suddenly looked at me differently. I cannot remember what were we talking about but a chill came over me as his eyes met mine and I had to look away.

“Look at me.”

He was scaring me.

“I want you. I love you.”

Again, it all came down to this. I had thought that he was different, but here he was sounding like the rest of the men in this community.

“Did you hear what I said?”

I didn't know how to respond. What was I to say? I looked down and started picking the dirt out from under my very clean nails. He was like a brother to me.

“Mokgethi, I am talking to you.”

When he said this it felt like my bones wanted to run out of my flesh. Then I remembered something my good friends had told me about the rabbit's habits – that if a girl does not assert herself straight away the rabbit takes control, telling the girl what is what.

“No, I cannot. I cannot,” I finally said, still playing with my nails.

I tried to speak my mind, but he refused to listen to me. He said that from that day on we were lovers and that he would marry me when the time was right. He said that it was our secret, that he loves me and I love him. I didn't agree with anything he said. I kept saying “No, I cannot ...” and shaking my head until he said that if I ever said no and shook my head again he would kill me. Later, after he had let me out of the car unscathed, I knew he was just trying to scare me. But when I was with him, I believed that he was serious.

Thabakgolo is too clever for his own good. He came out of matric with flying colours and was offered a place at Wits. After three years at university – where he did everything but study – he wound up back here in Teyageneng. People said this and that about him when he came back from university, but he proved them all wrong. Yes, he still lives with his parents, but he drives an expensive sports car and owns at least ten minibuses.

He is a normal guy. If you had heard of him and then you saw him in the street, you would not believe it was him. He eats the fried chicken legs that are sold on the corner here and wears clothes that make him look like an average unemployed man.

Everybody likes Thabakgolo – my grandmother, my Aunt Sarah, everybody. They all love and respect him so much that he has become a kind of Mandela in the community. He is the yardstick that older people use when they are making a point to people of our generation. They always say “Why cannot you be like Thabakgolo?” or “This is what makes Thabakgolo better than you!” He has become a point of reference.

My grandmother loves Thabakgolo so much that, although she does not say it out loud, she is hoping that I become his wife – she hints at it all the time. He is a Casanova, of that there is no doubt, but he is discreet and so, to most people, he comes across as the most wonderful young man because they hardly know anything about him. I know some of his girlfriends. I have never seen him with any of them, but I heard about them from his sisters, so I believe it to be the truth, even though I have never seen him hand in hand with them. There are other tales too, tales that cast doubt on his character – his sisters say that once he gets out of Teyageneng, finding himself in a place where he is not well known, he drinks and smokes and generally becomes a bad person – but despite these stories he remains a celebrity in my community, loved by all.

Thabakgolo calls me twenty minutes later:

“I am outside.”

I go out, ready to tell Thabakgolo that I cannot see him now, but for some reason I don't say what I said to myself that I was going to say to him.

“Get in the car.”

I do not know whether it is out of fear or respect but I get into the car and let him drive me more than seven kilometres from my home. He talks all the way but I don't hear what he is saying.

I start crying when he stops the car at a certain house.

“Please, let me go.”

“Just come inside for a bit, Mokgethi. There is no harm in coming inside for a bit.”

There isn't a living soul in the house, only evidence that people have been here, as if it is some kind of holiday home. Thabakgolo gets a bottle of wine from the fridge and two glasses and walks to the bedroom.

“Please, let me go. Thabakgolo, please.”

“Come in here.”

I am not willing to follow him into the bedroom.

“Going to tell the police.”

Trying to scare him.

“I have to commit a crime before you tell them anything ...”

Coming out of the bedroom, Thabakgolo grabs me by my arm. I cry out but that's all I can do – he is too strong for me. By the time we reach the bedroom I am tired and bruised from wrestling with him. He drags me through the door, closes it behind us and pins me against it.

I close my eyes and bow my head as he starts to kiss my neck.

“Please, Thabakgolo. Please. Please. Stop.”

Picking me up, he carries me to the bed and puts me down on it. The mini is now a rope around my waist and he pulls at it. I cross my legs, holding my skirt at the sides, but he is too strong and he drags it and my underwear down below my butt.

Our eyes lock as I open mine and make one last plea.

“Thabakgolo. Please, let me go. It is not that I don't want to, but I am not ready yet. Please.”

It is no use. He holds me down and continues kissing and caressing. His phone rings and rings as I look up at him, my eyes open wide and tears running down the sides of my face. My protests have all amounted to nothing and I am too weak to get away from him. It is not that I am turned on, this is far from being the case, but all my protests have amounted to nothing and I am not strong enough to fight him.

He smiles as he looks down at me.

“What is your problem?”

“You cannot do this to me without a condom.”

It just comes out of my mouth. It is my first thought, but by saying it I feel like I have given him permission to do whatever he wants with me. I feel worse than a sinner denied redemption.

He smiles. My legs are still tightly crossed, but that doesn't seem to worry him. He starts kissing my thighs, trying to pull them apart.

“Thabakgolo. Thabakgolo. Stop. Stop.”

But the tears and my tearful-hurting-defeated voice make no difference. I try to keep my legs crossed, but he is too strong. He forces my legs apart and positions himself between them. I try to push him away but he grabs my hands and pins them above my head.

Unzipping himself, he puts on a condom, then, cradling himself, he slowly forces himself into me. I hold my breath, feeling pain as he pushes until he is completely in, then pulls himself back, then forces himself in again.

Lifetimes pass with every in and out and with every in and out the pain and my anger grow until I realise that I am not actually angry with Thabakgolo but with myself for not being able to do anything to stop him. I want to scream out loud but for some reason I cannot. All I can do is cry – the tears just keep flowing from my eyes.

He stops and asks:

“Mokgethi, am I hurting you?”

As if he didn't know it. As if he would stop if I was to say yes.

“I am finishing now.”

Going at it with speed, hurting me and hurting me and hurting me until he makes a funny noise and falls on top of me, sweating all over.

“I love you,” he whispers, hugging me.

Somebody told me once that sex is not love. He said that sex is an act and as I lie in Thabakgolo's bed I do not think that he meant that sex is a loving act.

He gets up and starts dressing himself. I curl myself up on the bed, feeling my heart beating, every beat making every nerve throb. I want to take a bath. If I could take a bath, I could wash away what just happened. I feel dirty, inhuman. I need to take a bath.

“Aren't you going to dress? It's late.”

Sitting up, I see that there is blood on the sheet. I can't look at myself. I am shameful. I am angry.

I take my clothes and run to the door but I can't move without feeling pain that makes me dizzy and he grabs me before I get outside.

“You are naked.”

I cover my face with my clothes and start to sob. He tries to give me a hug but I push him away.

“Leave me alone!”

“Mokgethi, I am sorry.”

Sorry for what? It is done, sorry or not sorry, it makes no difference. I didn't want him to do this to me. “If I was a man!” became a full stop to every thought that I had. I am going to poison your food and you will die but if I was a man I would shoot you. I am going to the sangomas and you will never get aroused again but if I was a man I would cut your balls off right now. If I was a man ... If I was a man ...

“Aren't you going to clean yourself?” he asks.

I ignore him and dress myself without looking at the blood that I know he is referring to. I dress myself in my pink underwear, my miniskirt, my top and my sandals.

Eventually we get to the car and I get in.

He tries to be playful, tickling me, maybe hoping that I will laugh and smile, but I can't look at him, I am far away inside my own head.

Halfway back to my grandmother's house, he stops the car at a four-way stop and before I know it I open the door, get out and begin to walk back home. He drives next to me, begging me to get back in the car, but I have overcome my pain and I don't need anything from him. I am shameful. I am angry.

“Sharp,” he says eventually.

He tells me that he will call me, makes a U-turn and drives away.

I kick off my sandals and pick them up as my tears start to come again – I can walk faster barefoot. The sun is setting and it crosses my mind that I could get raped again – I am still a long way from home. Rape. I turn the word over in my mind, thinking evil things. Somebody just raped me.

I remember Mamafa's plan for walking at night. He told me that if he walks anywhere at night he always carries two stones, one in each hand, so that if anyone attacks him he can throw the stones in their face and, while they are still wondering what hit them, run away. I link my sandals together and take them in my left hand then I pick up a big stone with my right hand. If anyone tries anything, well ...

Thabakgolo comes back, begging, so I cross the road and walk facing the oncoming traffic. He drives some distance, stops, gets out of his car and comes to block my way. I look at him. Fuck him! I think as some Mokgethi that I do not recognise takes control of me.

“Thabakgolo, get out of my way.”

He just stands there. I spit and try to move around him, but he blocks me, saying this and that.

“Fuck you.”

I hit him in the face with my shoes. He grabs my hands so I kick him in the balls and when he doubles over I hit him repeatedly on the back with the stone until he falls down.

I run and run until I find myself in front of the gate to my grandmother's house with a question: What am I going to say to my grandmother? Then I remember that she won't be home until tomorrow. Maybe she is with her Saturday man – she only said that she wouldn't be home this Saturday, she didn't say where she was going.

Khutso is home and he has intentionally locked the door so that I have to knock to get him to let me in.

“Who is it?”

“Mokgethi.”

“Mokgethi?”

Pause.

“Mokgethi who? Did you say something because I didn't hear anything? Come again.”

I no longer know how to be playful with my own brother.

“Please, open the door.”

“Mokgethi Please Open The Door? No, I don't know you. What can I help you with, Mokgethi Please Open The Door?”

“Khutso, please open the door.”

“Now you say you are Khutso Please Open The Door ... Are you Mokgethi Please Open The Door or Khutso Please Open The Door? You are not making any sense at all.”

“Khutso!”

“Khutso. Oh! That is my name. Yes. You even know my name. Who are you?”

“Khutso, please open ...”

“Khutso is my name, yes, but Please is not my middle name and Open is definitely not my surname.”

I did not know what to say because I was getting angry with him and he wasn't doing anything wrong, he was just being Khutso, being my brother.

He suddenly flings open the door, scaring me.

“Apartheid has ended. Children can say and do whatever shit they want. This freedom is a worse curse.”