“I’m late.”

“For what?” These boys are idiots, really. “Where are you going?” he prompts me.

I point at my stomach.

“Ah, no. Phaka’s baby.” The words tumble from his mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound negative …” He tries again: “You sure?”

I shake my head.

He watches me in silence, then asks gently, “How would you feel if you are …” He also can’t say the word ‘pregnant’.

“Well, I thought I would be fine. I love babies. But …”

He sits down next to me and waits. Eventually he prompts me, like some kind of counsellor. “Your studies?”

“I’ve only got two more modules. I can do it.”

He nods. “Ah, good.” He looks genuinely glad for me. He searches my face carefully. “And Phaka?”

“He’s angry.”

“It’s just a shock reaction,” Lulama comforts me.

“He thinks I’m trying to trick him.”

Anger seizes Lulama’s face. “What?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “No! He must be panicking. He can’t mean it!”

I take the knobbly carrots and the rice to the kitchen. I stand at the kitchen sink, my shoulders shaking. Lulama is very respectful; takes my elbow in an old-fashioned way and sits me down at the table.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so emotional.”

“It’s a big deal, Bulelwa.” He chuckles. “And I have to tell you, my brother’s wife cried right through her pregnancy.”

The way he says it makes it all seem real. And really not that disastrous. With Lulama it always feels as if every situation has a sweet, funny side to it.

“Why don’t you guys talk tomorrow?” he says.

My depression descends again. “What if he leaves me?”

“If he stays angry would you …” His half-finished sentence is respectful somehow.

“Abortion? Umm. I don’t know.”

“Would you be traumatised if you …”

He leaves the ending open, a gentle space for me to figure out what I think. I ask him outright. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I’ve known you all my life but I can’t say. I know women have these hormones that make them want to protect the baby.”

I stare at his earnest, open face. His brown eyes have golden splinters around the pupil, like stray bits of sun have landed in them.

“How do you know these things? I ask him.

He states it like a fact. Not boasting. “I’m a thinker.”

I nod. Like me.

He glances around the empty kitchen. “I’m having left-overs for breakfast. You hungry?”

I nod, my mood brightening up.

“Well, there’s no change there.”

I grin. As I said, this boy knows me.

***

Tell us what you think: What does Lulama really feel about Bulelwa?