I’m staring at Coach Phiri, and all I can think is that I shouldn’t have said all that about having a good day, because look where it has got me.

Sometimes when I think about the future, I imagine bad things happening, but being dropped from the soccer team has never been one of them.

“Coach, sir–” I start to protest.

“Commitment.” He doesn’t let me say any more. “I’ve spoken to you guys about commitment before. I’m not seeing it from you, Cebo. Too many missed practices, and that match you couldn’t make.”

“I’m sorry, sir!” I hear how desperate I sound. “If I promise to be better about attend–”

“I don’t want to hear it.” He’s turning away. “You’ve let me and the team down one time too many. I want players who value their position.”

“Sir, I do…”

My voice falls away as he strides off. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t bear it. Until Khethi, soccer has been the one truly great thing in my life lately, separate from all that other stuff that keeps my stomach so jumpy and sore.

I find Fundi staring at me with his deepest frown.

“Why didn’t you explain to him?” He shakes his head. “About what’s happening at home? Maybe he’d give you another chance.”

I pull my shoulders up, lower my chin and stare hard at the ground.

“It doesn’t matter.” I watch the toe of my shoe kick up some dust. “Because you know what? This has made me realise how other things could get messed up because of being absent so much. Important things.”

“Mxm. Diski–”

“Things more important than soccer.” I can’t even smile at his shocked look.

“Khethi?”

“Her, but other stuff too. Like the science lessons, and getting good marks.” I think maybe I’m sounding like a loser, so I throw up my head and look at him. “I need those things, Fundi. I can be someone, I know I can, so those things are important.”

He pushes out a big breath that makes his lower lip vibrate. “But the team without you, Cebo? Not good. Hey, what about if you keep on coming to practices and matches, even if Coach won’t let you play? Then he’ll see you care.”

“And all the times I can’t make it? He’s right. I was letting you guys down.”

Fundi is a good friend, so he doesn’t want to believe that. It makes me feel better, for a while. Then when school gets out and I see him and the others heading down the road to the practice field, it’s like the fist in my stomach has moved up and is squeezing something in my chest. When I start to walk home, my feet want to go the other way.

“Hey, wena! Cebo, wait.”

Last year, when she was in Grade 8, Amahle always wanted to walk with me. This year I mostly only see her at home.

“Wassup?” I ask as she catches up.

“Nothing. I just thought you looked – I don’t know. Where’s Fundi?”

Something to make me laugh. “Kwaa! You thought I looked – like Fundi wasn’t with me. I know you like him.”

“So?”

“So nothing. Fundi is OK. Better him than ending up like Bulelwa.”

“I suppose she thought she was helping the family when Ma got so sick and we had to move to the shack. Being the big sister, you know?” Amahle says. “That old dude said he could help her.”

“So he gives her a baby and ducks, then Ma dies and Bulelwa takes off for Gauteng and leaves us with Ntando.”

Mostly I feel sad thinking about how Bulelwa disappeared and no-one could find her, but sometimes when things aren’t so good, this angry, bitter feeling grabs hold of me.

“Mxm. I know.” Amahle thinks for a few moments. “At least things are organised better now. Say all you like about the social worker, she did help with all that complicated stuff like your ID and getting the grant.”

“I know.

This feels weird. We mostly talk family matters at night, when Wandile and Ntando are asleep. The only person we never mention is our father; he disappeared before Wandile was born and later we heard he was dead. I don’t like thinking about him, so I try not to.

We walk without talking for a while. Then Amahle says, “So where is Fundi?”

“Soccer practice.”

“Then why aren’t you also … oh, Toothpick.”

“No. I got dropped from the team. Because I miss so many practices.”

“So then yes, Toothpick.” Sometimes Amahle’s voice gets hard and hissy. “Sorry bhuti, that sucks. But Cebo, now we need bread.”

I think about that boy burning the ten rand note at Khethi’s school. I pull out my wallet on its chain. There are only coins left to give my sister. She does most of our shopping because she’s good at it; good too about never spending a cent on anything extra.

*****

On Wednesday morning I’m still feeling down about being dropped. The only thing that makes me feel good is thinking about Friday and seeing Khethi again.

“Don’t let go of her hand until she’s inside the gate with the gogo,” I remind Wandile. He takes Ntando to the old woman who looks after her and some other little kids.

“See you guys.” Amahle is already rushing past the other two shacks in the Sibiyas’ back yard.

I make sure I’ve got my key for the padlock on our door – only Ntando doesn’t have a key – and follow Amahle. I can see Mrs Sibiya in her kitchen. She doesn’t look out. I’ve never seen her smile or heard her greeting any of the tenants.

“Cebo?” Mrs Shongwe, the LO teacher, comes out and catches me when I get to school and walk past her classroom. “Monday, Cebo?”

“M-Monday, Ma’am?” I hate it when I stammer.

“Monday. Two days ago. I see you were marked present at school for that day, so why didn’t I see you with the rest of your LO class?”

“I … I felt sick, Ma’am,” I mutter.

She just gives me a look and goes back into her classroom. It’s a disgusted look, like she doesn’t believe me, except that in a way I’ve told her the truth, because the worry that knots my stomach is a sort of sick feeling.

That’s pretty much how Wednesday carries on. Even at home things aren’t great. Wandile needs money for some school trip, and when Amahle goes to fetch Ntando from the gogo’s house she comes back with a message that we’re not sending enough nappies and bottles.

We’ve run out of fuel for the lamps again, so we’re eating in the light of the battery-powered light donated by a local organisation, when we hear the single bang on our tin door. Amahle and I look at each other. Only one person bangs like that. Only one person visits us at night.

Mr Sibiya stands in the light coming from his house, where his children are crying. He stands smelling of beer, moving a toothpick around in his mouth and looking past me, trying to get an eyeful of Amahle. I hate the way he does that. Then he looks at me and it’s like my heart is crashing down to my feet.

“You,” he says. “That useless inja Yihlo says he’s sick again. I need you tomorrow and Friday.”

***

Tell us what you think: Why is Cebo missing so much school? What does Mr Sibiya need him for and why is this not good news?