“Hey, pretty girl.”

“Hey, ndithetha nawe. Ulahlekile?” (I’m talking to you. Are you lost?)

Yes, you. Ulahlekile Mabhebeza?” (Are you lost, pretty girl?)

Aimée can’t understand what the guys leaning against the spaza wall are saying. They speak so fast, and mix it up. They are school drop-outs: hanging round, smoking, killing time watching the passers-by and waiting for something to happen. And now it has. This pretty teenage girl with dark, burnished skin has walked past, and clearly she is lost.

“Hey, ulahlekile?” one repeats, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the sand and crushing it with the heel of his fake Carvela shoe. He sidles towards her like he’s practised the moves in a mirror.

The way he looks at her, like he’s undressing her, makes her nervous. She searches the road, looking for a taxi. The one she should have got on has already left. She ran up just as it pulled away from the curb, full of school kids squashed together, singing along with Umlilo wa Big Nuz blaring through the speakers. She is left alone and lost on the pavement.

This is her first day at a new high school, in a new township, in a new country – and she is going to be late.

Uleqa esigela?” (You late for school?)

The guy stares at her, waiting for an answer. But she’s learned: it’s safer not to answer if you can’t understand the question. ‘Yes’ could be wrong. ‘No’ could be right. ‘No’ could be wrong, ‘yes’ could be right.

So she doesn’t say anything, but starts to walk away from them, slowly. She isn’t sure which direction her new school is in. But the guys aren’t going to let her go so easily. They start to follow her. She can hear their shoes on the pavement, she can feel them getting closer, but staying just a few paces behind. They are enjoying this – playing cat and mouse. She keeps walking.

“Hey, look at us. We’re talking to you.”

She stops and turns around.

“Hey, uphethe’nto?” One of the guys points at her clenched fist. She is holding something in it that she will never let them take from her.

“No,” she says softly.

“You have ‘no’ in your hand?” They laugh again. “Veza le ‘no’ uy’phetheyo. Vula maan.” (Show me this ‘no’. Open your hand.)

“Yes,” she says under her breath, keeping her fist clenched tightly around the coin in her palm.

“Yes, or, no? Which is it?”

Her heart is thumping in her chest. Now they make a circle around her. She is trapped.

“Hey? You don’t understand us?” they laugh.

“WHERE… ARE… YOU… FROM?” one guy asks, saying the words out slowly, loudly, right in her face, as if she can’t understand English. She looks straight into his bloodshot eyes.

She tries to push past, but they all block her way.

“Not so fast.”

“Can you speak English? Or just kwerekwere?”

And then a girl, wearing the same uniform as Aimée, bursts through their circle. She stands with her hands on her hips, defiant, staring the guys down.

“Of course she can speak English. Dick-heads!” she shouts at them.

“Hey maan Noki!” The guys know this girl.

She spits on the ground in front of them. “Amagents. Amalosers. Uyacinga uCLEVA, so CLEVA! Pick on someone your own size.”

Aimée wants to hug the girl. She has come out of nowhere, like an angry blessing.

“Hey, we were only having some fun,” the guy says, raising his hand, like he’s surrendering.

“You think it’s fun, not to understand?” She is right in his face now. “You should know better. You never understood anything in class. Isn’t that right, Dube? That’s why you’re out here. You were kicked out of school. And now you are doing nothing. Going nowhere. Sorry for you!”

Aimée follows Noki, who has marched away from the guys and down the street, in the direction of school. Aimée looks back nervously, checking: how the boys have responded to the cheek of this girl? But they are all now teasing Dube, and they seem to have forgotten about Aimée. For now, anyway.

She runs after Noki. “I’m Aimée, by the way”.

“I’m Noki, but I guess you heard my name back there. Hey, are you also going to Nkwenkwezi High?”

“Yes, it’s my first day and I’m going to be late.”

“Come on, we’ll run,” says Noki. She and Aimée run through the early morning township streets, weaving between the vegetable hawkers’ stalls and the coal braziers, where women stand braaing meat. They dodge the taxis as they run across the main road.

“Those boys think they are so smart, but they’re idiots,” Noki laughs. “They are friends of my brother. They aren’t as bad as they sound.” Her braids whip her cheeks as she runs. “Where are you from anyway?” Noki asks, breathless.

“Congo.”

“What are you holding on to so tightly?” Noki points to Aimée’s clenched fist.

But before Aimée can answer they are in through the gates of Nkwenkwezi High and Aimée is crushed in a swirl of learners, all running for their classes.

They stop, out of breath.

“You’ll be OK?”

“Yes. And thanks.”

“Any time. What grade you in?”

“Eleven A. You?”

“Eleven B. I’ll look for you at break. I’ll introduce you to a couple of my friends. I know what it feels like to be new at a school.”

Then she’s gone and Aimée is alone again in the centre of a whirlwind of bags and bodies. Boys and girls are shouting to each other in isiXhosa. They speak so fast. Now and then she catches a word. But the words are alone, floating. She can’t string them together to make a sentence.

The school siren sounds and as Aimée turns a girl shoves against her. She falls, in the dirt. Her hand splays open. The coin she has been holding spins across the ground in front of her.

“Hey, sorry,” the girl who bumped into her says, but she doesn’t look sorry. Her friends group around her and stare at Aimée as she gets up, brushing the dirt off her skirt.

The coin lies in the dirt between her and them. Her lucky coin.

Her grandmother gave it to her on the last night Aimée ever saw her, before she had to flee her country with her family. Her grandmother was too weak to go with them.

Her family hadn’t known then what they know now: that they will never be able to go home. At first they thought it would be just a few months before they could return to their town. But the civil war has never ended; months have become years and the years have become forever…

“Take it Aimée, it belongs in our family. My mother was given it by her father. Take it to remember me by.” Her granny had pressed the coin into her palm, that dark night. Then they had fled into the terror of the forest, the unknown darkness filled with screaming people running away from the soldiers.

Aimée had taken the coin and held it in her palm as they crossed borders. She had turned it over and over, wearing it smoother bit by bit, as she sat in the heat day after day in the refugee camps, doing nothing. Just sitting, eating when there was food, and waiting. Waiting and praying for her life to change. Waiting for something good to happen: a book to read, a school where she could learn, a hot shower, a tasty meal, a comfortable bed. Days slid together into months, into years.

The coin is her treasure.

“Keep it safe. Remember me. Remember who you are.” It was the last thing her granny had told her. She had died two months later. Word reached Aimée’s family in the refugee camp.

And now she is going to lose her coin in a school yard. Suddenly the girl, who has been staring at her, spins around, all smiles, as a boy comes towards them. A very handsome, tall, well-built boy.

“Hey, Mandla,” the girl says, trying to get his attention.

“Not now, Princess,” he says, brushing past her. He is looking at Aimée, frowning. Then down at the coin.

He bends down.

“Sies, don’t touch it. It’s been in dirt and who knows where,” says Princess.

He picks it up, turns it in his fingers. He is seriously handsome, with a smile that is cheeky and challenging.

He looks at Aimée like she’s a puzzle he’s trying to work out. He looks her up and down and she blushes as he takes her in: every part of her, from her shoes to her deep dark eyes.

He holds out his hand with the coin in his palm. She reaches for it. He grins and closes his palm on the coin and pulls his hand away.

“Finders keepers,” he says. And then he’s gone.

* * *

Tell us what you think: What do you think it feels like when you can’t understand what people are saying around you? How can it get you into trouble?


The prefab classroom fills up fast. Pupils crush and push past Aimée to get to their seats. It’s the second term. They all know the routine backwards. They all have their places; they all know each other. She has to catch up, fast, or be left out and fall behind. She had passed the test the school set her, and got into Grade eleven.

That wasn’t the difficult part. This is: the language; the new faces; the friends she hasn’t made yet.

She waits and watches until there is one empty chair left near the back of the classroom. It’s next to Princess. Just her luck! To land up next to the girl who first, dislikes her for no good reason, and second, dislikes her even more just because a boy called Mandla smiled at her.

She is about to sit down on the empty chair when one of Princess’s friends gets there first, pushing past Aimée, and plonking herself down, like she’s won a ‘musical chairs’ game. And Aimée is the player out.

Aimée stands awkwardly, looking around. And then Mandla comes up behind her. She hadn’t seen him in the back row of the class.

“Here,” he says, offering her his chair. Everyone is staring suddenly. Princess is glaring at her.

“Take it,” Mandla says.

“I don’t want it. I want my coin back,” she says. But he pretends not to hear. Then there is a scraping of chairs on the floor as everyone stands up because the teacher comes in. He sees Mandla offering Aimée his chair.

“Chivalrous, Mandla. Anybody know what that word means?” The teacher is tall and thin and is carrying a pile of books. He looks round the class for an answer.

There is silence.

“Chivalrous – adjective. To be polite and show respect for other people, especially women.” The class roars in mocking laughter as they repeat the word, looking at Mandla. But he just smiles.

“Quiet, class. Settle down,” the teacher says. Aimée sits down on the chair Mandla gave her, while he goes to the next classroom to find a spare chair.

Princess looks up from her cellphone. She’s been texting furiously.

“Share your books with the new member of our class, Princess,” the teacher says. But Princess just looks at Aimée and then back at her phone. She obviously has no intention of sharing anything, with Aimée. Ever.

The teacher indicates for Aimée to stand up. All eyes are on her and she wants to dissolve into the floor. To fly away, out of the classroom and up into the blue sky outside the window.

“We have a new girl in our class.” The teacher looks at the register he is holding.

“Ayim…” He stops, and tries again. “Ay…i…” The girls giggle. He stumbles over her name again. This time there is laughter. Aimée stares at the wall.

“Amy Mwamba,” the teacher says finally. “We’ll just call you Amy. It’s easier.” He smiles.

She can sit down. She can breathe again.

The lessons pass in a blur. At break she spends the time searching for Noki, but she can’t find her.

Before the end of school the English teacher calls the class to attention.

“Tonight I want each of you to write a few paragraphs about yourself. And Themba, I don’t want a rap song from Jay Z…”

“So if it’s my own rap, genuine, it’s OK Miss?” the boy says, cheekily.

The siren sounds and all the learners crush to get out of the door. Mandla is one of the first to take the gap. It is the end of the day and he still has Aimée’s coin. There is no sign that he is going to give it back any time soon.

Aimée is left in the classroom with Princess and her two friends. They have been waiting for her. As she walks towards the door, they are faster and get there first.

Princess blocks the doorway. She grabs Aimée’s arm. “Stay away from Mandla,” she hisses.

Aimée nods.

“Amy Mumba Wumba,” Princess laughs and her friends laugh with her. “You see, Mumba Wumba, Mandla is mine.”

“Does Mandla know that yet?” Noki asks Princess. She has run up to find Aimée, to take the taxi home with her.

“You’re just jealous,” says Princess. “Because you’re ugly and you won’t stand a chance with him.”

“Nobody stands a chance with him,” says Noki.

“Anyway,” says Princess’s friend, “even if Mandla does look at this ‘wumba mumba’ girl he’ll lose interest. Eat her up and spit her out. I bet she tastes disgusting. You know Mandla. It’s you he really wants, Princess.”

Aimée has seen this kind of girl before: one who says anything her friends want to hear, even if it’s not true.

Just then Mandla and a group of boys walk towards them.

“Stay away from Princess and her friends,” Noki says to Aimée, loud enough for Princess and Mandla to hear. “Those girls are riddled with bitchiness, and I hear it’s contagious.”

Then she grabs Aimée’s arm. “Come on, let’s go. I haven’t got time for these girls.”

Mandla laughs, impressed at Noki’s attitude. As they walk past him, Aimée feels his eyes on her. He jogs after Aimée and Noki, who have been joined by her friend Chantelle, and catches them by the school gate.

“If you want your coin back, meet me by the tree down there by the fence, at break tomorrow.” He winks.

Aimée blushes.

She walks home with Noki and Chantelle, a smile in her heart. The day has just got a whole lot better.

Chantelle asks Aimée where she lives and then tells her about the landlady, Mrs van Rheenen, who rents the Mwamba’s a shack in her back yard.

“I know her,” Chantelle rolls her eyes. “She’s a skelm. She’s one of my uncle’s ex-girlfriends. Sold my mom plants once, insisted on planting them herself. When they all fell over my mom pulled them up and saw they didn’t have roots. Not a single one. They were just leaves. I bet she rips you off with rent.”

“Tell me about it,” says Aimée.

“I’ll wait for you here tomorrow morning. We can get the taxi together,” says Noki when they reach Aimée’s street. “Hey, I think Mandla likes you,” she calls back to Aimée as she walks off.

“Noki, when you said that nobody stands a chance with Mandla, what did you mean?” Aimée calls back after her.

But a bus passes, spraying them with fumes and dirt. And her words are lost on the air.

* * *

Tell us what you think: Will Mandla give Aimée her coin back, and why is he keeping it?


As Aimée turns into the sandy driveway that leads to their house, the dog chained to a tree stands up, shakily. Its bark sounds thin and whiny.

“Hey shuttap!” Mrs van Rheenen shouts, kicking at it. She is sitting outside on an old fold-up beach chair, peeling potatoes, watching the street. Her unemployed son, Ricardo, fiddles in the engine of a car that is up on bricks, rusting in the winter rains. But it still has a sound system, and he turns the volume right up when he sees Aimée.

“Oh, sexy lady… wop… wop…. wop… wop… wop …Gangnam style…” the song pumps. Ricardo grinds his hips and laughs. Aimée’s mom often complains about the music he plays. Now Aimée hears her turn up her music inside their shack – Napesi yo nde motema na Ngai. Music from her country.

Ricardo turns ‘Gangnam style’ louder. It’s like a war going on between them. A war neither will ever win.

Mrs van Rheenen nods at Aimée, then says the same thing she always does.

“You people better be careful. They burned one of those Somali’s shops down, in Site B. To the ground. Those Somalis, they’re Muslims, but they’re not the same as our Muslims,” she adds. “I don’t want trouble here.” She says it like she’s already regretting letting them rent the tiny room in her back yard. But she knows none of ‘her’ people would pay the rent she charges for a shack that lets in the rain in winter.

“People don’t like the way you people take our jobs,” Mrs van Rheenen calls after her. “Look at Ricardo, unemployed. Waste of time.” She throws the peels into the bucket.

Aimée pushes the door of their shack open and turns down the music.

“Is it true mom?”

Her mother is cooking on their two plate stove on a small table in the living room.

“Is what true?” She stops what she’s doing and looks at Aimée.

“That they burned Ali’s shop down in Site B?”

“I don’t know. She’s always got a story about ‘you people’.” Her mother imitates their landlady’s voice. “You people go to church? You people cook that funny food. Stinks up the whole place. Why you people talk so loud?” Aimée laughs. Her mother sounds just like Mrs van Rheenen. But now her voice changes back to normal. “And how was school?”

“Fine.”

“Just ‘fine’?”

“I made friends with Nokiwe and Chantelle. They live near here.”

“That’s good. Have you got homework?”

“I have to write,” she says, making a face, “an autobiography. All about me. But I’m going to wash first.”

Her younger sister is holding a brush like a mike and singing into it. Like she’s on Idols. She’s kneeling on the top bunk: “Hey sexy lady… wop… wop… wop…” The song’s gevaarlik ne Aimée? Ayoba.

“Listen to her. I can’t understand what she’s saying. She came back from primary school and everything is ‘gevaarlik’ and ‘ayoba’ and ‘not ayoba’,” their mom complains.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” her sister chirps. “Isn’t that what you want – for us to fit in?”

“But not to forget. You can’t even speak our language.”

“She was too young, Ma,” says Aimée. “Anyway, English is our language now.”

“You wouldn’t think so, listening to her,” her mom says.

“You want us to fit in. You want us to stand out? Which?”

Suddenly the day at school overwhelms Aimée and she wants to cry. In the toilet she fills a bucket of water. She takes off her school shirt and looks at the scars on her arms and her leg.

Scars that are her living memories from the night they nearly made it out of Congo, across the border of Cyangugu Province which links Bukavu town to Rwanda. She remembers how they could see the Ruzizi River that flows from Lake Kivu, when suddenly they heard people shouting and the guys that were leading them told everyone to keep quiet and move slowly because the soldiers were approaching. She was so scared she peed in her pants.

One woman was crying out, calling for her ten-year-old boy who had been captured by the soldiers. The woman was living in fear of what they all knew would happen – that her child would be trained as a soldier and taught to kill. Aimée’s mother held her so, so tight, and Aimée could see the fear in her eyes. Her own heart was beating so fast.

Then the guys leading them to the border started shouting: “Kimbia, kimbia, wanajeshi wanatufuata!” (Run, run, the soldiers are on our trail!)

People started running and Aimée and her family followed them. Aimée could not see where she was going. She tripped and fell among some rocks. But there was no time to stop and cry. Her father pulled her up and they carried on moving fast. Tree branches kept cutting her and when they finally reached the border they had to push their way through a barbed wire fence. It cut her leg, but she had become numb and couldn’t feel the pain as the red lines of blood smeared all over her clothes.

To this day she doesn’t know how they survived that night. It’s as if it was a horrible dream. But the scars on her arms and leg are proof of how real it was, how close they came to death in search of their freedom.

She covers the scars now with her clothing and goes back to the living room where her mom hands her a new exercise book and pen. “I bought you this,” her mom says. She has cleared a space on the small table.

Aimée kisses her mom. She opens the book. White fresh paper. A new start. A blank page. Hope.

She writes her name and the date.

She crosses ‘Aimée’ out and writes ‘Amy’. Her new, easy-to-pronounce name.

Her mother shakes her head and makes a tutting noise. “We gave you that name. It means ‘love’, Aimée. You were our love.”

“Was?” says Aimée cheekily.

“Still are. If you do your homework.”

Aimée starts to write her story for the English teacher:

I was born in Bukavu, a town in North East DRC, near the border of Rwanda. We fled because of the civil war in our country. Our lives were in danger. We travelled through many African countries before coming here to South Africa. My younger brother died of malaria in one of the refugee camps in Rwamwanja, in the western part of Uganda…

She stops. This is her story, but it is also the story of thousands of refugees. This story is not hers alone. She is a refugee but first, before that, she is Aimée Mwamba, an individual, unique and special. She starts again:

My name is Aimée. It means love in French. My mother said the first thing I ate was fufu and peanut soup. I still love it. I was cheeky at school, but I did well. I can remember some things about our house. It was big and beautiful surrounded by a fruits and vegetable garden, my friend Claudette and I used to love helping my mother with the planting. I lost my friend, Claudette, in the madness of the war. I love drawing, I always have. My father taught us in the camps. We were lucky, he was a teacher. We wrote sums in the sand. He taught us everything he knew about geography, history and science. I love my family so much. I also love listening to R&B music and my favorite singer is Nathalie Makoma, she is a very famous Congolese singer. My favorite colour is blue.

My dreams for the future are many. I have scars on my body where the wire cut me, but I have hope in my heart.

She stops writing.

She tears out the page and starts again.

When she turns out the light to go to sleep she can hear her mother and father speaking in low tones.

“Ali was a good man. Half the people in Site B used to go to his shop. I saw Mrs Themba this morning at Francoise’s school. She was very upset about it. She said he always gave her credit when she didn’t have enough food and no money to pay.”

“If they only knew what he had suffered in Somalia.” Her father’s voice is hushed. “His whole family was killed. He had to start again here, from nothing. He was a kind man. He hurt nobody. He just wanted to survive here and make a new life.”

“At least we have each other, and Aimée and Francoise. But I am afraid, Patrice. It’s not just Ali’s shop. They have started burning refugee homes in Site B. They are driving them out. There was a strike, local workers were dismissed, and now they are blaming the refugees there. I am worried it will spread here.”

“We can’t move again. Aimée’s just started at the new school.”

“We might have to.”

Aimée has just found friends in Noki and Chantelle. And she has to get her coin back from Mandla. It’s all she can think about.

* * *

Tell us what you think: Why is it important to not label people as ‘refugees’, but rather to see each person as a unique individual?


In the morning on the way to school in the taxi they pass the outskirts of Site B where houses have been burned down overnight.

Pieces of wood are still smouldering where homes have been destroyed, and the burning plastic sheeting is polluting the air with thick, dark smoke. Refugee families have been left homeless and uprooted again. The smell of smoke is strong. It chokes the air. It’s the smell of people’s homes and lives going up in flames.

“Be careful,” her mom told Aimée when she had left for school. “You are walking with your friend?”

“Yes mom.”

“And come straight home. I hope it doesn’t spread here.”

“Yes mom.”

“And don’t talk to anyone until you get here. Aimée…”

“Yes?”

“We might have to move again, if…” But Aimée doesn’t want to hear her. She doesn’t want to think about ‘if…’

The only thing she can think about is Mandla, how handsome he is, how he had smiled and given her his chair, and how she is going to meet him at break and get her coin back. She can’t wait to see him.

But Mandla isn’t in class.

“Why so sad?” Princess says, with mock pity. “You really don’t understand. Do we have to spell it out to you? Mandla will never care about you. He will never go out with you. Get it girlfriend? He’s the son of a chief. His daddy wants someone better for him. Understand? Not some kwerekwere.”

At break Noki comes to find her, with Chantelle.

“I just have to meet… someone…” she hesitates. “Then I’ll come and find you.”

“Someone called Mandla?” asks Noki.

Aimée is embarrassed.

“Be careful,” Noki says. “Just get your coin back, that’s all. Mandla can be very charming. But…”

Aimée doesn’t want to hear the same thing about Mandla from Noki. How can she be agreeing with the other girls? She thought Noki was her friend. Does she also think Aimée isn’t good enough for this cute boy? This son of a chief? Why?

She runs down to the tree, but there is no-one there. She waits. She can see the groups of girls and boys around the yard. Two boys are smoking near the wire fence. Princess is having her hair played with by her friends. Noki and Chantelle are kicking a football around with some boys. Laughing.

Was this a joke? Was Mandla as bad as Princess? Was he just setting her up to bring her down?

But then he’s there. She didn’t hear him come up. He takes her hand in his. She looks over to where Princess is standing with a group of girls.

“Don’t worry about her,” he says. She feels her heart flutter. Noki’s warning is no use to her now.

“There is no such thing as love at first sight,” her mom had told her. But Aimée isn’t so sure. Aimée is already losing her heart to this cute boy, who has her coin.

“Princess thinks you’re her boyfriend” says Aimée. “Are you?” she asks cheekily.

“She told you that? In her dreams,” he laughs.

“Do you have my coin?” she asks.

“Why is it so important to you?” He looks at her like he really wants to understand. “Come here, sit down and tell me.” And she sits down next to him under the tree. She feels his body, so close to hers. If she moved just a tiny bit, they would touch.

She takes a deep breath and starts to tell him about the coin, about her grandmother, about how she far she has travelled with it and what it means to her. She is not sure yet that she can trust him with her story. What if he laughs, or teases her like Princess and her friends? But once she starts she can’t stop. It just comes rushing out.

“And they burned Ali’s shop yesterday in Site B,” she ends, fighting back the tears. “What did he do? He was a good man.”

“He was,” says Mandla quietly. “I know. I’ve bought from him before. He always gave the kids something, when they were hungry, even if they didn’t have coins – a banana, or bread.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No it isn’t.” Mandla takes her hand and squeezes it. Then the siren for the end of break goes.

“My coin,” she reminds him, as he pulls her to her feet.

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow. I promise,” he says.

“Why did you keep it?”

“I wanted to see you again.”

“Really?”

“Hey, it’s a free country. Maybe I like you. You’re interesting.”

“Princess says you are the son of a chief. Is that true?”

“Is that what she says?” He doesn’t answer her questions but rather says, “Hey, come and watch me play soccer on Saturday. Say yes.”

“Yes,” she says.

She looks across the schoolyard. Princess is staring at them.

* * *

Tell us what you think: Why is it hard for Aimée to trust Mandla? What advice would you give Aimée?


The next day it rains. It pours from the sky, non-stop. Nobody is playing soccer. Nobody is playing anything. Except for Mrs van Rheenen’s son, who has a new album by Pitbull. He’s sitting in the shell of his car, listening to it full blast, in the rain. The troubles have died down. The workers in Site B were given their jobs back after the strike. It is quiet again – for now.

The whole week it rains, and the next. But Aimée doesn’t care. In fact she doesn’t notice the rain, because Mandla is there. He sends her SMSes that make her smile. Princess glares at her in class and she doesn’t care. Mandla holds her hand at break time, despite the other boys teasing him.

“Hey, mjita. Utya i variety, udikwe yi pap en vleis?” they say, slapping him on the back. (Hey, dude. Are you tasting a variety now? Are you tired of pap and meat?) But he just laughs and takes Aimée’s hand.

“What are they saying?” she asks Mandla.

“That you are cute and I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he laughs. She knows it’s not true, but she doesn’t care. He’s hers.

Noki just shakes her head and laughs.

At break she and Mandla sit under the tree and talk. He puts his arm around her at the school gates, in full view of Princess and her friends. Sometimes he kisses her behind the shed, where no-one can see them. But they only see each other at school. “You are my girlfriend,” he tells her. But he never arranges to see her outside the school gates.

“He’s royalty,” Princess tells her in the toilets. “His family has arranged a marriage for him. To the daughter of a chief. You don’t stand a chance. Every day is a day closer to him dumping you.”

But every day Mandla is waiting for her, and every day they sit together, talking, laughing, and kissing secretly.

“Maybe I was wrong about Mandla,” Noki tells Aimée, when, after three weeks, they are still together.

“Maybe you were,” Aimée laughs.

And still, after three weeks, he hasn’t given her coin back.

“In case you lose interest in me,” he teases her. “Then I’ll have an excuse to see you one last time, to try and win you back.”

“My family wants to meet you,” she says. “My sister found your photo on my phone. Now they’re teasing me.”

He laughs. “You tell your sister I’m coming to visit one day,” he says. “And if she’s lucky I’ll bring her something special.”

“Hey, come see us soon,” she says. “Promise?”

“Promise.” He says.

“When am I going to meet your family?” she asks softly.

“When the time is right,” he says. But it’s been a month and the time has never been right. And he hasn’t kept his promise and visited her. Not yet.

“And your father? The chief?” she had asked him.

His face always clouds over when she mentions his father, and he changes the subject.

“What is it? Why don’t you want to talk about your father?” she had asked.

“It’s complicated.”

“I like complicated.”

“Not this kind of complicated,” he had said.

When she asked Noki, she had just shaken her head. “Sometimes families are stronger than sweethearts,” she said. “His father is putting pressure on him. He expects Mandla to do as he wishes, to marry whom he chooses.”

On the month end, Noki takes Aimée shopping.

“So we can chat about something other than Mandla,” she teases. “Hey, what about these jeans? I think they’d be cool on you.”

They are laughing as they come out of the shopping centre. Then Aimée sees Mandla. He is crossing the parking lot, carrying shopping bags. Next to him is an older woman. This must be his aunt who he lives with, she thinks. They will meet at last.

His aunt is always busy on weekends. Or she’s at church, or visiting relatives.

But now Mandla is here with his aunt, and they are heading for Jet. She nearly calls out to him, but Noki puts her hand on her arm. Just then Mandla turns and looks across the parking lot. He sees Aimée and Noki, she is sure of that. But, instead of coming to greet them he turns back and follows his aunt, into the store.

“Perhaps he didn’t see you,” Noki tries to reassure Aimée. But she isn’t sure herself.

“Perhaps,” says Aimée, downcast.

That afternoon Aimée goes to her uncle’s second-hand furniture store, a few blocks from where they live. She takes her homework with her, putting her book down on one of the second-hand tables that is for sale. The light is very dim inside, and there is hardly any space. There are no windows, just an overhead bulb, rigged up to the electric cable outside. However it’s quiet here. She will be able to concentrate.

She tries not to think about Mandla, and his aunt. But she can’t help it. Surely he saw her. Why would he ignore her? Is he ashamed?

“Have you been to Mandla’s house?” Aimée had asked Noki.

“Why?”

“Just because.”

“I went there once, with friends,” Noki laughs. “Plasma TV, surround sound, new couches. VIP Ayoba!”

Now as she sits in the dim light of her uncle’s furniture store Aimée can’t concentrate on her homework. She can hardly read the textbook in the dim light. It’s so stuffy in the shop. She can’t stop thinking of Mandla. She feels his lips on hers and his arms around her, his sweet words. And then she thinks of him walking away from her at the mall – like she was a stranger.

In the afternoon her uncle lets her go to the nearest shop to buy a cola and chips.

She takes her time in the queue, paging through the magazines in the rack. Beautiful holiday destinations: Explore Africa for only R10 000! Fly to Kilimanjaro. Enjoy Lake Victoria at your leisure. The woman in the picture has a passport and money. She can go anywhere. She can fly in and out of countries. She can see the lush tropical bush and listen to the music, eat the food. Aimée’s family would give anything to be free to travel where they pleased. But they have no money, no passports, not even proper papers yet to stay in South Africa.

There is only one solution. She has to do well. No, not just well. Brilliantly. She is their hope. She must forget Mandla, and get back to her homework.

She shuts the magazine and runs back to the shop. It’s started raining again.

Her eyes take a few moments to adjust to the dim light in the shop. Just when she starts to make out the chairs, tables and beds stacked up against the wall, she hears someone calling her.

She squeezes through the gap between two tables.

And then she sees him. He’s sitting in an old arm chair, smiling at her.

“I thought it was time to give you back this.” Mandla holds up the coin.

“How did you find me? Does this mean we are… over?”

He shakes his head. “No. Hell no. Really, it was just an excuse to come over. Noki told me I’d find you here.”

Now… now he is going to say he saw me at the mall, she thought. Now he is going to explain and say he is sorry. But he doesn’t.

“And I was thinking,” he said, “that I might just buy this chair. It’s comfortable. And my aunt is so large she takes up the whole sofa.”

She wants to ask him why he hadn’t come to greet her. But now, he is so warm and friendly, she is sure it was a mistake. That he hadn’t seen her.

“You serious?” asks Aimée. “Why would you want that old chair?” She thinks of what Noki said. How he has a new couch.

It’s too dim in the shop to see his expression properly.

Then her uncle comes over.

“I’d like to buy this chair,” says Mandla. “Is this the price?” He looks at the white sticker that is stuck on the leather. He takes notes out of his pocket and holds them out to Aimée. She hesitates. She doesn’t want his money.

Her uncle nudges her. “Kokoma te zua mbongo Aimée, merci.” (Don’t be rude, take the money Aimée. Say thank you.)

She reaches out her hand. But her eyes are challenging. “Thank you,” she says, and does a mock curtsey.

Mandla laughs.

“I can drop it off,” says her uncle. “When you are ready I can borrow a bakkie to use.”

Mandla looks up quickly. “Great. I’ll SMS Aimée directions.”

Aimée breathes a sigh of relief. She is going to meet his family at last. It’s going to be OK.

“Come. Walk with me a little.” He stands up.

He buys her a cola at the spaza.

As they are leaving, some guys he knows greet him.

Kuth’wa i-timer lakho lizwakele. Ay’gqitywangana na ‘ba uzotrowa la way yakho yakdala? Uz’gade, Joe. Ahh Mandla, nzala ka…” (I hear your father’s back. Hasn’t it been all arranged that you’ll marry your childhood sweetheart? Better be careful, Mandla – next in line to the royal clan of….”) the guy teases.

“That’s what my father thinks,” says Mandla.

Udlala ngomlil’wemoyeni,” (You are playing with fire.) the friend says. “Uya yazi?” (Does she know?) He winks at Aimée.

When they are gone, Aimée asks Mandla what they said.

“That you are very beautiful and I’m a lucky guy,” he smiles.

“They didn’t,” she says, but she laughs. “They can’t always say the same thing.”

They sit down on an old concrete pipe and drink their colas. The clouds have lifted; the sun has come out.

“Why me?” she asks, thinking of Noki’s warning, and Princess’s threats.

“Why not?” He smiles that cheeky smile.

“And what will happen when your aunt and father meet me?” she asks. “Will they approve? And if they don’t?”

“I don’t care. I’m my own person. I’ll do what I want. ”

But he is frowning, and there is a shadow of doubt in his voice.

* * *

Tell us what you think: Why hasn’t Mandla introduced Aimée to his family?


She has her coin back and she plays with it in class, unconsciously sliding it between her fingers. Mandla has been absent all week – to Princess’s delight.

Aimée reads his SMS again and again.

My dads here. Bisness 2 b sorted. C u soon.
XXXX

“Shame. You missing your boyfriend?” says Princess. “He’s got tired of you. I bet his daddy’s got some proper girlfriend for him at home. That’s why he’s staying away.”

She looks at Aimée again. “Stop doing that. It’s really annoying. Give it here,” says Princess and grabs the coin from Aimée’s hand. “You’re not a little girl anymore, are you? You don’t need to hold this silly coin all the time.”

“Give it back,” Aimée says, but Princess has it in her pocket already.

“Now where’s your boyfriend to help you?” mocks Princess. “I don’t see him here, do you? Sorry for you!”

Aimée wants to get away from Princess, but Princess won’t let her.

“Has he met your family?” Princess asks. “I wonder what his daddy will think when he meets your daddy? A chief and a car guard? Now that should be interesting.”

“He’s not a car guard.”

“So how come I saw him at the mall? Yes, and he wasn’t shopping, he was helping my dad to park our car. Shame – we gave him a fifty cents.”

And then Aimée explodes. “He’s not a car guard! He’s a teacher. He has a degree. I bet that’s more than your dad has.”

“In your dreams,” says Princess. “A degree in parking cars, maybe,” and her friends laugh. “So don’t think Mandla’s daddy is going to welcome you into the family. Yes, you better run back to your family. Maybe they have a nice kwerekwere boy for you?”

* * * * *

On Friday night there is an SMS from Mandla.

Waz up? Drp da chair Sunday?
Mxx

She falls asleep with a smile on her face.

But in the middle of the night there is a terrible banging on the door. Her dad opens it to see Mrs van Reenen, standing there in her nightie with another man and woman. They are all shouting.

“You people must get out! Mrs Jeffrey here says they burned her shack down, because she renting to you people. You must go. Get out!”

“We can’t leave now… it’s…”

“What am I supposed to do? It’s not safe for me. They’re coming to burn the house down. You must go. Just now they kill us all. You can come back for the furniture tomorrow. Now go. Leave!”

Aimée walks with her family in the dark across the township, to the furniture store. They can sleep there tonight and then tomorrow ask her uncle if they can stay with him.

In amongst the tables and beds, Aimée finds Mandla’s chair. She curls up in it and tries to sleep. She wants him now. She SMSes:

Pls come 2 da shop, I nid u

But there is no reply. Perhaps it is too late and he is fast asleep.

That night Aimée dreams that the people are surrounding the furniture shop. They are shouting and waving their fists. Her family is inside the shop, looking out from behind tables. Crouched down, terrified. There is Princess and the girls. All of them are shouting and waving their fists. There is Mandla’s aunt. They are also screaming. And then Princess takes a can of petrol and empties it around the building, in a circle on the ground. She throws a match down and the flames leap up. They are trapped and choking inside. She looks out through the smoke and thinks she sees Mandla. He’s walking away.

Aimée wakes up gasping for air. Her mom puts her arm around her.

“We’ll be OK. Jean Luc will help tomorrow. We’ll make a plan. We’ll stay with uncle. You can walk to school from there.”

In the dark she SMSes Mandla again.

Princess has my coin.
X

Her mom strokes her hair. “Try to sleep. Shall I tell you a story?” Aimée nodded. “Once there was a family who lived in a beautiful house in a beautiful country with forests and rivers. There were birds in the trees, and avocados as big as footballs.”

“Footballs?”

“It’s true,” her father adds.

Eventually Aimée falls asleep with her mom stroking her hair.

* * *

Tell us what you think: Why do you think some people are threatened by people that come from other countries?


On the Sunday, Aimée’s uncle has borrowed the truck and wants to deliver the chair to Mandla. Aimée sits next to her uncle and gives him the directions to Mandla’s house. She is nervous. Mandla still hasn’t called. But, this was the arrangement, and her uncle wants to deliver what has been paid for while he has the use of the truck.

They drive through a section of the township she hasn’t been to before. A section of nice houses with well-maintained yards and gardens.

They pull up outside a house with a big white Toyota twin cab parked in the driveway.

She and her uncle walk up to the door and knock. A woman opens the curtain to check who is there, then comes to the door.

“Can I help you?” she says, looking at Aimée blankly. It’s the same woman Aimée saw with Mandla in the parking lot. It’s his aunt.

“I’m Aimée,” she says.

But the woman just stares – no smiles.

In that moment, she realises with a horrible feeling, that Mandla hasn’t told them about the chair he bought. He hasn’t told them that he has a girlfriend called Aimée. He hasn’t told them anything.

“We’ve come to deliver the chair,” her uncle says politely.

“I know nothing about a chair.” The aunt looks suspicious now. She calls back into the house.

A man comes. He looks like an older version of Mandla. He must be his father, thinks Aimée. He blocks the doorway.

“What do you people want?”

“Your son bought a chair from us. We are delivering it,” Aimée’s uncle says.

“Why would my son buy a second-hand chair?” Mandla’s father says, puzzled. “We have a new suite inside. Out of the box.” He looks at the chair. “Why would we want this rubbish? It must be a mistake.”

“I am at school with your son. I am his girlfriend,” she wants to tell him, but the words stick in her throat.

“I am sorry. He hasn’t told me about you,” he says coldly. “I can’t help you. There must be some mistake.”

He shuts the door.

“Where is Mandla?” Her voice is breaking with tears.

“Come Aimée, let’s go,” her uncle says, trying to lead her away. But Aimée stands – she can’t move. “Let’s go Aimée. I’m sure you can sort this misunderstanding out at school. Mandla seems like a nice boy.”

He is more than a nice boy, she wants to say. I love him.

Why didn’t he tell his father they were coming? He asked her to deliver the chair. Anger wells up inside her. How could he let this happen? And where was he last night when she needed him?

As they turn a corner in the road a car swings past them. In a flash, before they are gone, Aimée sees Mandla. He is sitting in the passenger seat. A girl is driving. And then they are gone.

That night she waits for an SMS, but nothing comes.

On Monday morning her mother won’t let her go to school yet; the danger’s not over.

She thinks of Noki and Chantelle. They SMS her and tell her they will take notes and come visit. She sends them her address at her uncle’s home. And she SMSes:

Hav u seen Mandla?

Noki replies:

Not @ skul

And she adds:

Mssing u already.

That night he still hasn’t called her.

It’s true, what Princess says, and Noki. Family is stronger. He hasn’t told them – his family. He can’t. He won’t. She can never be his girlfriend. And does she want to be someone’s girlfriend if he is too scared to tell his family about her?

She sits out in the yard in his chair and feels so alone. She thinks of his arms wrapped around her, of how safe it felt. Of his kisses and the way he made her laugh, and the way she could make him laugh.

She can’t go back to school. She can’t bear to hear Princess say: I told you so. And Noki’s pity. And Mandla’s, “I’m sorry. But it’s over. It’s how it has to be. I have to obey my father’s wishes.”

She loses track of time, sitting in the dark with her blanket. The clouds have cleared enough to see a scattering of stars. She has lost her coin again and she has lost Mandla.

The gate rattles as it opens. Someone walks into the yard. She doesn’t turn. She freezes. Fear rushes through her like cold water, but she can’t move. Perhaps they won’t see her if she sits very still.

She gasps as she feels two hands on her shoulders. Then she hears his voice. Soft. “Mandla,” she whispers, standing up. They look at each other.

“Noki told me where you were. I had to come. I had to explain.”

“There is nothing to explain. You weren’t there. You don’t know how it felt when your father closed the door on us. How it felt when I realised they knew nothing about me. About us.”

“I know.” He looks away. “I know. I was a coward. But now I have told my family. When my father told me you came and he told you to go, I couldn’t bear thinking about it. I told him everything. Once I started I couldn’t stop. I told him I don’t want to live in the village. I don’t want to be the next chief and marry whom he has chosen. I want to have my own life. Find my own way. I want to be with you.”

She looks at him in the dark.

“I’m sorry, for how they treated you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. If you want me to go I will. But before I do, I have something for you. Here.”

He reaches out and takes her hand. He opens her palm. He presses the coin onto her skin and closes her fingers around it – then his hand around hers, warm.

“Hey, Princess won’t bother you again. I promise.” He hesitates. “Do you want me to go?”

Aimée shakes her head. He hugs her close.

“Not now that you’ve found me,” she whispers.

“Finders keepers,” he says softly.

His breath is warm against her skin in the cold night. Tomorrow she will go back to school. Mandla will come to fetch her in the morning, and every morning until things are safe again. And even after that.

* * *

Tell us what you think: What is your opinion of Mandla and Aimée’s relationship? Is there is a future for them? Why or why not?

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