“The best thing I can do for this little girl is to allow her to repeat Grade 7. It will help improve her vocabulary when it comes to speaking Xhosa next year. High school is too soon for her.” The Principal of Phandulwazi school in Lower Crossroads, Cape Town, looked straight at my mother, like that was the end of the conversation.

We were living in a one-roomed house, so tiny, and very different from the house we lived in in Katlehong.

My mother hesitated. I think she felt me standing beside her. I was thirteen now. I was clever. I could keep up. I just needed a chance to prove myself.

“Is it because she is not South African that you do not want her in this school?” my mother asked.

I held my breath.

“She will be the only foreigner. She might be teased by other students. Rather put her in a private school or a school in town. At least they have many kids like her.” By saying, ‘people like her’ she meant foreigners. I guess she was trying to protect me. I couldn’t believe that I would be the only foreign girl in the whole school.

But we could not afford to live in town. I could not afford to go to a private school. I needed to go to the township school. I had to make her believe me.

My mom turned to leave; she took my hand. But I would not go. I took a deep breath, found my courage, and then spoke to the Principal.

“I just ask for a chance. You can look at my performance. If I fail, to please you, I will then leave this school and find another school next year. But I just need a chance.”

The Principal looked at me for a long time then she nodded her head.

“OK, she said, but you will need to work hard.”

“I will.” I went home so excited. I was going to school close by where we stayed. I would make new friends.

My first day at the new school was terrifying. I didn’t know anybody. I kept my head down and found a chair at the back of the class. When I sat down a girl shouted at me in Xhosa:

“Sis’tulo sam esi uhleli kuso! That’s my chair you’re sitting on.” She was speaking Xhosa and I knew that if I spoke back in Xhosa she would tell that I was from somewhere else.

“I am sorry. I didn’t realise. I am new,” I stuttered in English. “I guess I will just have to find another chair.”

“Yes, do that.” The girl waited for me to get up and then took the chair. She didn’t smile. It was like she could see all my secrets.

“Here, take this chair.” Another girl gave me her chair and went to find a spare. “You can sit behind me,” she said. “I am Thandeka.” At least this girl was friendly.

“Thank you. I am Wonanji.” I knew what the next question would be. My name sounded so unusual. Before she could say anything I said quickly: “You can call me Precious.”

At break Thandeka told me the other girl was Asanda and that I shouldn’t pay attention to her. She was just rude and trying to get attention.

After break Asanda kept staring at me like she wanted me to disappear. I was terrified. I couldn’t wait to get home.

I was going into class when Asanda and a group of girls came up to me. I tried to hide behind Thandeka.

“Hey guys, I see we have a new friend here. Thandeka, what’s her name?” Asanda and the girls looked me up and down like I was dirt.

“I am Precious,” I answered quickly, before Thandeka could even say my Malawian name.

“Precious,” said Asanda. “You’re not from here are you?”

Just then the teacher came in and saved me from having to answer.

When school was over I started to walk home alone.

“Wait.” I turned, thinking it was Thandeka. But it was another girl from class. She ran up to me.

“Precious, I am Olena, Thandeka’s friend. I’m going the same way as you.”

Over the next weeks Olena and I became close.

One day the teacher told us, “Today we are going to talk about culture. I want each and every one of you to tell us about where you come from. Each will say their clan name and the town their families are from. You start Miss Phiri.”

“Why me first, mam?” The moment I had been dreading had arrived.

“Because you are the one in front.”

Not even she knew where I was from. Only the Principal knew.

“I am from Joburg and I am Zulu. I don’t have a clan name. Thank you.”

Before I could sit the teacher spoke again.

“Miss Phiri, it’s not possible for you not to have a clan name and Joburg is a city. Where did your parents come from originally?”

My brain was spinning and my hands were shaking. Don’t say it, I told myself. They will laugh at you. Just keep quiet or make something up.

“I am from KwaZulu-Natal. I just never went there. My parents aren’t traditional and all that, so I never asked and they never said anything. So can I sit now?”

“Yes, Miss Phiri, you can.”

And that’s how I became known. The class even started calling me ‘Ntombi YomZulu’ – the Zulu girl.

In my second week at school I caught one of the boys in class staring at me. And after that when he did it again, I would see a look of hatred pass across Asanda’s face.

“Do you see how he looks at you? I think he likes you,” Olena teased me one break time. “All the girls want Andile as their boyfriend. He’s so cute.”

“Do you see how Asanda looks at me? Like she wants to kill me,” I told her.

“So?”

“So, it’s impossible to even talk to him without her noticing.”

I thought of Bright. I had a pang of homesickness for him and Katlehong and Esther and Mapule and Irene. There at school nobody worried where I was from.

Asanda wasn’t alone. She had a gang of girls who agreed with everything she said and did. If I wasn’t careful they would turn against me too. No, I had to keep my head down at school. Stick with Olena and Thandeka and do my work. That was all.

But I couldn’t avoid Asanda forever. We were put together on a project. Thank goodness Olena and Thandeka were also in my group.

As fate would have it, the day I went to work on the project at Olena’s house, Thandeka and Asanda were there too. When I arrived they were watching Gugu on TV.

But then the news came on, and everything changed.

***

Tell us what you think: What on the news changed everything for Wonanji?