News travels faster than dwarrelwind in a platteland town. By the time Lethabo arrived for rugby practice the following day, everybody knew he was the replacement captain. His team-mates crowded around in the change-room, poking fun at him by insisting that his promotion was due to his heroics against Bakkies.

“Not bad for a darkie,” quipped a nuggetty player called Adriaan Retief. Everybody laughed.

Lethabo had never been a team captain before and had never aspired to be a leader. For most of his school career at Kroonstad High it was enough just to be accepted; he was the only black player in the team, and he knew there was a good chance that racism was not restricted to opposition teams.

He assumed some of his team-mates made comments behind his back, but he had long ago decided not to spend his time worrying about every racist thought, especially since, if truth be told, he himself had racist thoughts from time to time. There were plenty of times back home in Port St Johns when he joined his friends at the tavern in chatting about ‘the whites’ or ‘white attitudes’ – and generally it was not complimentary.

Now here he was as captain of a white rugby team in the heart of the platteland.

No doubt his friends at the tavern would have a lot to say about that!

On account of all the chatting Lethabo was late leaving the change-room, and he was still pulling on his jersey on the way to the field when the trup trup trup of metal studs announced somebody running up behind: it was Pieter. Lethabo stopped to let his friend catch up, but Pieter jogged straight past. Lethabo called after him: “Hey, wait up. What’s the big rush?”

Pieter didn’t turn around. Instead he stopped and put his hands on his hips. Something was wrong. When Lethabo drew level, Pieter swung around and glared at him, clearly upset. His normally smiling face was taught with anger, his eyes cold and menacing. Before Lethabo could do anything Pieter grabbed him by the collar: “I trusted you, and you stabbed me in the back!”

“What? What are you talking about?” said Lethabo, completely flummoxed.

“You’re the new team captain! Do you really think you deserve it? Everybody is laughing at you. The only reason my dad gave you the job was because he felt sorry for you!”

Pieter tightened his grip and pushed Lethabo up against the trunk of a tree. Their faces were so close they were almost touching, and Pieter leaned in even closer for a final word: “And if you so much as touch my sister you will wish you never came to this school. Do you understand me?”

So unexpected was Pieter’s outburst that Lethabo felt like somebody had just turned the world upside down. His sweet-scented dream of smiles and success had been exposed for what it was: a fantasy.

In fact his position was extremely precarious. Lethabo could see that now – and it was partly because of his skin colour. But for the first time it occurred to him that his promotion had come at Pieter’s expense. Pieter was team Vice-captain; no doubt he would have expected the promotion for himself. But for some reason he had been over-looked – by his very own dad. Why? Was Mr Cronje cross with his son? Was he punishing him?

Whatever was going on, Lethabo realised he had been naïve to think everybody would be pleased about his captaincy. He had been so caught up in his own success he had failed to see how others might be affected.

However Lethabo was mostly shocked at what Pieter had said about Tersia. Did Pieter know how Lethabo felt about her? Did he know about the text message Tersia had sent him that very morning, congratulating him on the captaincy?

Did he know about Lethabo’s reply, asking her out on a date?

Just as Pieter let go of Lethabo’s collar a booming voice assailed them from the side of the field: Mr Cronje. “What the hell are the two of you doing? We’re all waiting for you! Get a move on or I’ll have you running around this field all bloody night, you hear?”

They picked up their water bottles and jogged onto the field, straight past their coach, who muttered and cursed under his breath from under a wide-brimmed hat, only his moustache showing.

Ten minutes later the two boys faced each other in a line-out on opposing sides of a practice match. Pieter was still furious and shaking his head. Lethabo tried to ignore it but sensed trouble brewing – and he was right. The ball shot into the line-out and the jumper fell to ground. Lethabo swooped down to wrestle for possession but several bodies fell on top of him and a shrill blast of the whistle signalled the ball was dead. When he tried to get up he noticed he was pinned to the ground by a stiff arm against his neck, and a split-second later somebody punched the side of his head.

It was several seconds before Lethabo could stand up. He was dizzy and there was a sharp pain in his ear. Mr Cronje was holding his shoulders and talking to him, but at first he couldn’t hear.

“Lethabo. Are you OK?”

“Yes, I think so.”

But Lethabo was not OK. Standing behind the referee he saw Pieter, rubbing the fingers of his right hand. He was smiling.

***

Tell us what you think: Are most of us racist in some way and to some extent? Can racism be triggered by jealousy?