Waking up in the middle of the night to pee has always been Aphiwe’s thing, a thing that her grandmother was always scolding her for because she never listened when she told her not to drink anything at night. Her grandmother’s complaints were because the toilet flushing woke her up.

Aphiwe isn’t bothered by that here: this house is so big nobody will hear the toilet flushing and wake up, and it’s not far from her bedroom anyway. But that one is locked, the next one must be down the passage.

“And you locked the child in the bedroom? All day? Are you stupid?”

“Thabani! I told you I don’t want this child in my house. How was I going to explain her to our friends? I’m not raising one of your bastards, I have my own children.”

They are shouting, and Aphiwe has stopped in the passage not knowing whether to run back to her bedroom or continue to the bathroom.

“Sphokazi, you are not even raising our children, Harriet is raising them. All you know is throwing useless parties to impress your friends. You spend all day shopping with my money.”

“And all you know is going around sticking your penis wherever it fits. Your child is not staying here. If she stays, I will leave you, Thabani.”

“We both know you’re not going anywhere. My child is staying here and there is nothing you can do about it!”

A sound of glass breaking sends Aphiwe running back to her bedroom and closing the door.

There was never shouting and things breaking at her old home.

She falls asleep still trying to process what she heard. If only her mother had let her keep the cell phone, she’d phone Gogo and ask her to come get her.

It is not Harriet who wakes her up in the morning, it is her new mother. She is just there, staring down at her, rage on her face.

“It’s time to go to school,” she says.

Aphiwe notices it’s still dark outside. She forgot to close the curtain before she slept. She jumps out of bed, ready to go take a bath.

“Nope, first I have to make you look pretty. Sit down there,” she says pointing her to the chair next to the window.

From her nightgown pocket she pulls out a pair of scissors.

Aphiwe moves her head when she realised she is about to cut her hair.

“Yeyi! You are not going to be disrespectful to me, little girl.”

With one hand she holds her neck, tight, with the other she cuts her hair, plaited as it is.

The grip on her neck hurts, and every time she tries to move her head, it gets tighter.

“Clean this up. Your father has just left, he will be gone for a week. I trust you will not give me any problems until then. Stop crying and get ready for school,” she says, before grabbing Aphiwe by her neck again and forcing her to look at herself in the mirror.

“See, now you look perfect for your first day in high school.”

On her head are bald patches, here and hair there.

She cries even harder.

When she left Hammersdale, boys were starting to look at her like they liked her. She even had a crush on one but he always walked past her like he didn’t see her.

Now she is going to be the girl everyone laughs at on her first day of high school.

Tell us: Why do you think some adults behave abusively towards children?