Me and my homies Silas and Mondli are smoking weed at the bottom of Silas’ garden. They tell me I’m halfway to passing the second test. I scored from the Rasta at the Jah House. Next I must smoke the product.

I haven’t told them I was too chicken to go into the Jah House; that I bought the stuff from a kid on the pavement.

Mondli lights up and drags the smoke into his lungs. He coughs and passes the zol over to Silas. ‘Sweet, this stuff is so sweet,’ Silas says and sucks hard. Then he hands it to me. ‘Feel it. It is here,’ he says.

I take the joint and inhale gently. It smells like my grandfather’s cow shed. And it tastes like cow crap. But what do I know? I say this in between coughing bits of my lung on to the ground.

Silas grabs the joint and crumbles it in his fist. ‘This isn’t Swazi, this is cow crap,’ he says. He swings a punch at my shoulder as Mondli cracks up. ‘Where the hell did you get this?’

I tell Silas the truth and say sorry, I screwed up the party.

‘Come, let’s go,’ Silas says.

Image: Treehouse_1977, CC-BY-SA-2.0

WHAT DO YOU THINK? If you were Frank’s ouledi and bust him smoking weed, what would you do?