Mud. Everywhere. Lots of it. Lethabo scanned the water-logged field as he led his team to the centre mark; it looked just like the pitches in the Transkei.

For him the match could not start soon enough – and not because he was newly-elected captain. He wanted the match to start so that he could finally forget about his nightmare week, which seemed to have gone from bad to worse.

First the fall-out with Pieter, then the disappointment with Tersia, then with most of his own team, who appeared to have turned against him. Had somebody seen them in the pool? Had she said something? How else could he explain the comments and taunts that followed him everywhere, even from people he had considered his friends? A burly classmate – and school wrestling champion –Borrie Swanepoel, had cornered him over lunch yesterday: “Now that you’re Captain you reckon you can score a white chick? Whatzup with that?”

At first Lethabo thought he was joking. He wasn’t. There had been other comments, lots of them, some scrawled on his locker. ‘Go back to the Transkei!’ was scrawled in red koki pen across his locker name-plate. ‘VOETSEK APIE’ was written on a note left in his satchel.

Lethabo had tried to block these insults out of his mind.

But there had been no way of avoiding the ‘mystery’ punch in yesterday’s final practice – luckily a glancing blow. I happened at the bottom of a collapsed scrum when Lethabo was completely defenceless, his arms pinned at his side.

The worst was that Mr Cronje appeared to be in on it too. When Lethabo had emerged clutching his hand and complaining, instead of sympathy he received a tongue lashing from the coach: “What the hell is wrong with you this time?!” he yelled. “If you’re not prepared to take the physical knocks then go and do ballet. Bloody hell!”

Then, in a far more sinister tone: “It seems you can’t help getting yourself into trouble these days, Lethabo.”

But all of that was pushed to the background the moment Lethabo ran onto the match-day field. At last he could just play rugby and lap up the atmosphere of the cheering crowds standing under trees, decked out in the school’s red and green colours.

Despite the muddy conditions the game was fast-paced, with St Stevens threatening the Kroonstad line, only to be driven back by some raking kicks. A clever back-line move earned St Stevens the first points of the game, and it was clear the visitors had the upper hand. Lethabo’s team seemed disorganised, as if the disunity had taken its toll.

In contrast, the on-going racist taunts had fuelled Lethabo’s legs, for he himself made a wonderful solo break off the side of the scrum. He dotted down under the posts and punched the ball into the crowds, prompting a mighty cheer.

Yet despite his success the half-time huddle was tense and hostile. There were more comments: “So you think you’re the big hero because you scored a try,” said Pieter. “In fact everybody’s too scared to touch you because you’re black!”

Everybody laughed. When Lethabo looked up he saw Mr Cronje standing right next to the huddle. Surely he had heard Pieter? And yet he said nothing.

The match restarted and Lethabo dived in with venom. He decided the only way he could deal with the situation was to play his heart out. St Stevens scored again, but five minutes later Kroonstad were on the attack with Lethabo driving for the line in the middle of a forward pack, the ball concealed under his arm. When the tryline came into view Lethabo dived onto the pitch, grounding the ball at the same time as both forward packs collapsed on top of him.

Pinned to the ground by the weight of the players Lethabo felt two hands clamp down on his head: one jerked his head to the side while the other hand attacked his face, sticking fingers deep into his left eye.

“An eye for an eye, darkie,” somebody hissed next to his ear. “Now fuck off back to that hole where you came from.”

The pain was terrible, but Lethabo was buried under a pile of bodies and could do nothing.

When the players stood up, Lethabo stayed down, writhing on his back and clutching his eyes: one was bleeding, the other filled with mud. He could see nothing. Voices swirled around him and arms lifted him onto a stretcher. He heard Mr Cronje barking commands: “Get him to the MediClinic right now!”

“Why bother – he’s only a kaffir,” muttered somebody under their breath.

More arms lifting, more concerned voices, then the sound of car doors opening. Onto the back seat, into the traffic. Car hooter blaring, angry voices in the front seat, and the firm pressure of somebody’s large hand on Lethabo’s forehead. It was Mr Cronje.

“You’ll be OK boy,” was all he said. “You’ll be OK. We’ll see to that.”

*****

In the mid-afternoon Lethabo received a visit from the last person he expected to see. Tersia waved some flowers in front of his face and pulled a chair in close to his bed. Lethabo watched her with one eye, the other blanked out under a crown of bandages that looked like it had slipped down sideways across his head. She seemed tense, and fidgeted with the bed cover.

Then she cracked a little smile. “You know you look quite sexy in that thing,” Tersia joked, tapping his bandages and checking over her shoulder to check that they were alone. “If you’d worn that the other night, who knows, maybe you would have got lucky.”

They both laughed awkwardly.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Lethabo said, sniffing Tersia’s bouquet of flowers. “Whoever it was, he was an amateur eye-gouger – he missed all the important bits apparently. So don’t worry – I’ll be ogling you again in no time,” he said, despite himself, playing along with her flirting. He tried to wink, but realised it didn’t really work with only one eye. “I’m trying to wink at you,” he said. “Please don’t think I’m falling asleep.”

“I was wondering what you were doing,” she chuckled, picking up his hand but then putting it down quickly when somebody walked past in the corridor. “At least you won the game. Your team did all right in the end.” She gave him a thumbs-up.

“Yes I heard. 27-24. And Pieter was the man of the match. Come to think of it I suppose he took over the captaincy too.” Lethabo leaned his head back into his pillow to contemplate his misfortune. Not only had he missed out on a famous victory, his new arch-enemy had stolen the limelight. “I guess that’s the way it goes,” he muttered.

Tersia sighed. “Actually no,” she said. “That’s not the way it goes.” She stood up and walked over to the window, trailing her hand over the glass and squinting into the highveld sunset.

When she turned around there were tears in her eyes: “Lethabo, it was Pieter who attacked you.”

Lethabo said nothing. In his heart he had known this all along, but without proof he had to put the episode out of his mind. In fact, it was all such a disaster that he had resolved to return to the Transkei rather than keep fighting. Why live like this? With all this racist hostility? Bastards.

“How do you know?” he said at last, propping himself up on a cushion.

Tersia sat down on the end of the bed. “He told me himself.” She was crying now, wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “He came home after the match in quite a state and started kicking things around – he was going crazy. When I asked him what was going on he just broke down. He sobbed. Told me everything. How he blamed you for being captain, how he’d punched you during the practice match, and how…” She looked away, battling to talk. “How he gouged your eye.”

Lethabo was stunned. He reached over and rubbed Tersia’s shoulders, unsure what to say next. He was angry, surprised, and relieved all at the same time. But what did it mean? As strange as it seemed, a part of Lethabo felt concerned for Pieter, for if word got out he would be in big trouble. On the other hand what he had done was completely shocking – people had been expelled from the school for less.

“If your dad finds out he is going to go ballistic.”

Tersia looked up through a veil of tears. “Too late,” she said, “I told him straight away. Pieter is my brother but what happened just isn’t right. He can’t get away with something like this.”

Lethabo was still reeling from the news when a large figure filled the doorway, then stepped inside.

“Tersia, I think you should leave now,” said Mr Cronje. “Lethabo and I need to talk.”

***

Tell us: Have you ever done something bad that you immediately regret, and that teaches you an uncomfortable lesson about yourself?