The lawyer’s handshake is firm and friendly. I do my best not to look really surprised but I’m pretty sure I fail.

I’ve power-dressed for this appointment at the grand-sounding ‘Centre for Applied Legal Studies’. After yesterday’s scene with Besturd I felt strung out like a wire. I felt so … so dirty after he’d shouted at me like that. The chat with Aphiwe put some strut back in my stride, but this morning I was low again. I’ve made sure I don’t look it. No matter what, I’m not going to let anybody talk down to me like Mr Besturd did.

But I’d pictured this legal appointment all wrong. Somehow I’d imagined my lawyer as a tall, broad-shouldered, suit-wearing dude with spectacles and a briefcase. But the lawyer who is shaking my hand is a woman. She’s tiny and fly, and, most surprising of all, she looks just a couple of years older than me.

“I’m Khanyi Skweyiya. Welcome to CALS,” she says with a warm smile. “Aphiwe’s sister, Cebisa, has filled me in with what’s happening over at your block. I know Sixth Street well, actually. My family was evicted from an apartment there about a year-and-a-half-ago, so I’ve lived through what you’re dealing with.”

I’m so surprised by all this I can’t speak for a moment. I look away to gather myself and notice a poster on her wall: ‘If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.’

I feel myself relax a little. I smile back at her, with a sense of relief.

“I’m Pheliswa. Thank you so much for agreeing to see me. I’m sorry if I seem surprised but you look so…”

“Female? And young?” Khanyi says with a cheeky grin.

“Ahhh, yes. Exactly,” I admit, feeling a little caught out.

“It’s OK. I get that a lot. I only graduated two years ago – and top of my class, by the way, just so you know.”

I like the way she talks. She’s confident but not serious and scary. And she is easy to talk to. I nod and smile back, impressed. “You also don’t look like your family comes from Sixth Street.”

“Hey, don’t discriminate,” she says, her voice light but firm. “Some of the best, most successful people I know used to, or still do, live in Sixth Street. Time to spring-clean your limiting opinion of the people there – especially since you’re one of them!”

“Sorry. I was thinking more of the drug dealers and the other criminals. You know what I mean…”

“Sure, I do. But there are plenty of good people, like yourself, living there too.”

I nod.

Her office has a big desk, comfy old chairs on both sides of it, and a view of the city out of her window. She points at a kettle in the corner. “I’m just making myself some tea. Want some?”

“Yes please.”

She keeps chatting reassuringly while she makes a pot.

“I know life is tough in the inner city ghettos, Pheliswa. It was an eye-opener living there. I learnt fast that I had to believe in myself, work hard and fight for a better life. The alternatives were just not worth it.”

I flashback to that poor family running away from their home in their dressing gowns. My eyes unexpectedly brim with tears. I bite my lip.

“I’ve got a serious problem, Khanyi.”

“I know,” she says, her voice gentle as she hands me a cup of tea. “Facing an eviction was one of the most terrifying things that ever happened to me and my family. I’ve been in your shoes. Sugar?”

“Yes please.”

I take a spoon and stir it in. Twenty minutes later I’ve told her the whole story, from the Eviction Notice to the gangsters in the area and how mean Mr Besturd was to me yesterday. She listens, and thinks before she replies.

“I can see you’re a lot like me Pheliswa. You’ve got a lot of fight and determination in you. We’re going to have to work hard to fix this problem. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“OK. Well firstly you need to know that the occupants of City Views have a right to free legal aid or as we say, pro bono assistance, and that’s where CALS and I come in.”

I feel better already knowing she’s on my side.

“And the law says that both the government and the owner of the property have to ‘meaningfully engage’ with the people living in the property before an eviction. Doesn’t sound like there has been that yet. I’ll get in touch with Mr Besturd. And I’ll need your help to speak to the tenants at City Views. Are you in?”

She smiles encouragingly at me.

“I’m in.” It feels good.

Hours later I’m on a positivity high as I arrive back at City Views. I’ve got a pile of pamphlets to help rally all the building’s occupants, and change the world!

“Want a smoke girly?”

It’s the gangster I saw abusing the homeless young man earlier today. I know him by reputation and I’ve seen him in the hood, but never on our doorstep before. I know he deals in everything. Cocaine, heroin, ecstacy, mandrax, meth, whoonga, you name it. And he’s The Confiscator’s right-hand man. His being here two days after our eviction notice can only mean trouble.

He’s busy lighting up glass pipes for the sex workers who hang out nearby.

My heart starts pounding and my thoughts are racing. Does this mean The Confiscator is in the building? Are they planning a take-over?

Aphiwe and I witnessed the hostile take-over of the building we were discussing the night of the Eviction Notice. It was hectic! One minute it was just a normal day in the street. The next The Confiscator was there, backed up by his armed gangsters – including this guy. They just marched into the building, guns ready. People were screaming. They beat up and threw out anyone who resisted.

We watched the whole thing from inside the café across the road. Later, the owner’s lawyer arrived, waving papers. They just held a gun to his head and walked him back to his car – he was lucky to drive away alive. Then the police came, sirens wailing, blue lights flashing. But after a while they just left. I don’t know how that works. And the building has been getting more dangerous ever since.

Now I shudder at the gangster’s tone, then remember how that homeless guy had handled him earlier. I shake my head, keep my eyes down and slip by without speaking. The lifts are broken but once I’ve turned the corner in the entrance hall I run up all twenty-nine flights of stairs to our apartment. Breathless, I jam the door closed behind me with a chair.

I’m on an emotional rollercoaster. My high after my CALS meeting has crashed to an all-time low. I may have learnt a little about the law, but now I’m stuck again. That night I toss and turn in bed, the pamphlets hidden under my mattress.

How can I go door-to-door organizing a legal anti-eviction committee like I promised Khanyi, when there are illegal gangsters in the building? There’s something dodgy going on with them, for sure. If they find out what I’m doing I could end up in the gutter.

My gran is talking in her sleep. Jabulani cries out now and again. Our apartment is full of fear. I keep anxiously feeling for the pamphlets under me.

By dawn I’ve decided. Nobody’s going to stop me doing what I need to do. Not Mr Besturd, not The Confiscator, and not his gangster. No matter what the danger, I’m going fists first into this eviction battle. I’ve got my family to protect. Other people in the building need me too.

***

Tell us what you think: Is it admirable of Pheliswa to take on this battle? Or should she concentrate on her own survival?