Mpendulo waited with patience by the gate after he had knocked. He was busy dusting off his shoe with a pair of threadbare women’s stockings when Pule came out. Both their school shoes shone so much you could imagine seeing real crystals when they caught the reflection of the sun. The result of polish applied with water and then the leather burnt with a candle flame. Their shirts were always as white as snow. Long sleeved and tucked in at the waist. The lines on their school trousers could cut a fly to death. As soon as he was done they started walking.

Mpendulo lived on the other side of the main road, a walking distance from Pule’s house. Their mothers were friends from church. Determined in their walk, none said a word to the other as though they were both aware that talking would slow them down. They trekked the trails in the bushy outskirts of Protea Glen Ext 4, that led towards a bridge.

It was a bright day outside, a quite lively Thursday morning. A warm gentle breeze blew delicately from the direction of the river stream, which separated the two sides of Protea Glen from North. Protea North stood on a gentle slope towards the North of Soweto on the other side of the stream, and Protea Glen linked to it by means of the bridge.

The bridge had quite a history. There had been a tragic car accident that had claimed the lives of school children and changed those that had survived forever. What had been of interest about the particular event was that it involved a national celebrity, a musician whom along with a friend, supposedly had attempted to put on a road show and raced cars for whatever reason. Later it was discovered that their bloodstreams were an ocean of cocaine.

Pule and Mpendulo were not afraid. Even when they had to walk past the bridge or when they were returning from the church choir practice on weekends. Many other children walked past the bridge, wearing all sorts of different uniform colours. Some figures that went along the bridge were the countless men in ragged and oily clothes, pushing homemade trollies full of various recyclable waste materials.

They went along the bridge, greeting and cheering as they passed by some of their friends who went the opposite direction to a different school. There was only one secondary school in the whole of Protea Glen, from extension one to extension twenty-six. Protea Glen Secondary School was in extension twelve but the boys went to Tetelo Secondary School on the North of Protea.

Upon reaching the first street on the outskirts of Protea North, Mpendulo stopped at one of the stalls to buy a cigarette. He lit it before they continued on their way.

“Wola!” As unfamiliar as it was, the sound of the voice was definitely reaching for them.

They turned their heads to look without stopping. They saw a boy loping so as to keep up with them, with his body reluctant in his movement like something was weighing him down. He was all ragged and oily, a bad stench came off him. A pair of sneakers, knotted at the back of his dark neck by the laces, dangled above his chest. They were expensive just by a glimpse of them.

“Skeif bafwethu. Nigrand magents, (Do you have a smoke, are you okay guys?)”

They greeted him back as he left his trolley that was full of plastic bottles on the other side of the road and crossed. Mpendulo handed him over the cigarette. He spoke in between whiffs and puffs, his words accompanied by the smoke of the cigarette all the while scampering as there was no stopping from the two.

“Ng’cela ningitlatse ngePondo bafowethu ngithenge isinkwa,” (Can you please give me R2 so that I can buy bread) he returned the remaining cigarette.

“Eish askies bro but we had the last R2 and it’s the one that bought us the cigarette, if only you came a few moments earlier,” replied Mpendulo, as they continued to hurry on their way.

“Yazi ezinye izinto ziyamangaza.” (Something’s are surprising) Mpendulo started.

“Why isn’t that guy in school?” Pule engaged.

“Chose the easy way out I guess. Other people…”

“The easy way out of what?” Mpendulo interrupted.

“Failing to take responsibility for yourself, for your life?”

“It’s easy to say things…”

“It’s easy to hide behind the complaint of being the victim of circumstance.”

“Ukhuluma ngani? (What are you talking about?) You can never understand people’s reasons for their choices if you don’t share their experiences.”

They were already into Letsatsi Radebe Street, the school gate in eye’s view, when another boy from school came through, ending their conversation.

***

Tell us: Do you agree that to understand people’s reasons you must share their experiences?