Smanga

I walked through the school gate with my head bowed down, as if worshipping the atmosphere. I stood at the corner and lurked. I fished out my enochlophobia pills and swallowed two. I tucked in my school T-shirt and proceeded with my journey.

I walked through the hallway as quickly as my feet could carry me. I stopped next to my locker. I set the code and opened it. I grabbed the books I needed for the first three periods: Biology, English and History. I peeked through the locker crack, scanning my surroundings. The kids were starting to pile up. Their rant was eardrum destroying. I closed my locker carefully and went into the classroom. I was thankful I hadn’t met my bully.

But what was the use of hoping, or of trying to avoid him? I was, after all, his classmate.

First period was English. I entered the classroom and found that only six kids were already seated. I glanced at my watch. The period was going to start in seventeen minutes. I hobbled and sat down in the middle row, middle seat – the perfect spot for me. See, I was short-sighted.

Students started piling in. I kept my head low, avoiding eye contact with everyone who made an entry. Sihle, my friend, came in and sat down next to me. She looked at me with an emotionless face. I whimpered. She laughed and lightly hit my shoulder.

“Morning, are you okay?” she inquired.

“Yes,” I answered simply.

She rolled her eyes.

“Really,” I stressed.

She nodded.

A shoulder collided with mine. I looked up to see who it was. Perfect, just perfect! It had to be him, Zweli. He’d been bullying me since eighth grade. I’d complained enough, but no one ever did a thing. I watched as the devil sat down.

“Don’t worry. It’s our last year of schooling,” Sihle said, obviously trying to calm me.

No words left my lips.

“Smanga! Smanga!” she said, as she waved her hand in front of my eyes. I snapped out of my trance and looked at her.

“Just don’t give him the satisfaction this year. I trust you won’t,” she said, and pulled me into a bone-crushing embrace. I smiled as I let go.

A new English teacher walked in. He was…well, I’m a guy. I’m not allowed to think like that. I shoved the thought to the back of my head. He carried a lot of books and suitcases. Good grief! I assumed his English teaching job required him to bring everything he owned to school. He dropped everything on the tabletop and sighed. He reached for an immaculate white handkerchief in his pocket and wiped the sweat off his flawless face. He was splendid.

The bell rung and everyone settled down.

“Thank you. As you all know, I am new here. So, take it easy on me, students,” said the new teacher, grinning from ear to ear. ”The suitcases here have everything you need to pass this class with an A plus,” he breathed as he opened them. He handed out a pile of papers to everyone. I scanned through the material. Oh no, orals were going to be held the following Friday!

My nerves radiated off of me. My hands shook and sweat started dripping down my face freely.

“What’s wrong?” Sihle inquired, whispering. I pointed at the schedule, showing her the column that notified us of the orals to be held the following week. Her eyes grew bigger than a Meer cat.

“We still have plenty of time to prepare,” she said, forcing a smile. I looked at the ground, still shaking my head in disapproval.

The teacher went on, explaining how the orals would work, and how he expected us to perform. “Top-notch” seemed to be his favourite saying. Suddenly, there was a hard knock at the door. I got a fright, jumped off my seat and ducked down underneath my desk.

The mayor’s daughter stepped into the classroom. Everyone’s eyes were on her. She knew it and she loved it. She wore the world’s skimpiest skirt and short socks. On her shoulder, a Gucci bag was hung. She showed off her long and insured legs. She approached my seat and stood next to me. The teacher’s eyes were glued to her.

“Hey, who are you?” he asked her.

The mayor’s daughter jabbed at her friend, a girl who was sitting next to me. Her friend rushed to the teacher and whispered something to him. The teacher nodded. The friend went back to her seat.

The mayor’s daughter looked at me, annoyed. The thought darted through my cranium: she wanted my seat. Shit! I looked at my friend Sihle, who was sympathising with me. Everyone looked at me as if I had grown a second head.

“Hey you freak, move! You’re holding everyone back!” a voice echoed through the class. I needn’t turn back to know whose it was: the mayor’s daughter.

I looked at the teacher. He shrugged. I felt tears building up. I held them back. I didn’t want to cry in front of everyone. I cleared all my stationery off the table and rushed out of the classroom.

Tears started rolling down my cheeks as I exited the classroom. I got into the restroom and cried my lungs out. I wiped the tears off my face and tried to calm down. I washed my hands and dried them, ready to go back to class.

I pulled the door and collided with a strong shoulder. Zweli! He yanked at my T-shirt. He folded his fist and punched me straight on my nose. The liquid, which my mind registered as blood and boogers, started overflowing out of my nose. I winced.

Satan looked at me, rage all over his face. He kicked my ribs uncountable times. I cried but no words left my lips. He fed me his shoes and I felt blood on my mouth. I spat it out onto the tiles and allowed my tears to fall from my eyes. He went out, surely satisfied.

I got up and stumbled home, dodging everyone I met on the street.

***

Tell us: What do you think Smanga will do next? How will he cope with the bullying he faces at school?