Outside in the street, my mother wrote down Bulelani’s name and our address, plus the neighbour’s phone number that we sometimes used. And then we started the long journey back home. It felt painful, getting further away from where we thought Bulelani was. My mother turned her face to the window and didn’t speak for the whole bus ride.

I couldn’t think of anything but Bulelani. I had to stop imagining him being tortured, or murdered, by those white men with hard faces.

I got out my diary and started writing again about him, about how when we were little he had taught me chess. And how he tried to teach me how to box, when I was bothered by the bully Andile down the road. Then one day Bulelani had followed me to school and then jumped on Andile when he was coming to steal my lunch. He had shouted and threatened him, but then he and Andile had talked and he had learnt that Andile didn’t get any lunch. So every Monday my mother would put in an extra sandwich for Andile, and my brother got other people to help too. That was the kind of person Bulelani was. I felt myself smiling in pride as I wrote the words.

I heard Vika’s familiar three knocks at the door. My mother rushed to open it. “I heard news,” he said. “Someone saw him at the Woodstock Police Station. Peter was there looking for his brother. And Bulelani called to him – they were moving him somewhere. He was in the passage.”

“How did he look?” my mother asked.

“Fine, he was fine,” Vika said, not looking at her, and my heart jumped in fear. What was he not telling us? Vika saw my face, came over to where I was sitting. “What’s this?” he asked, pointing at my diary.

“Nothing,” I said, embarrassed. But he saw the word ‘Bulelani’.

“What are you writing?”

“Just something about Bulelani,” I said. “It soothes me when I’m feeling so worried.”

“Can I read it?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled it towards him and started reading. Then he looked up. “Ntombi, this is really good. You write well.”

I felt my cheeks warm up in happy embarrassment.

“Ntombi, can I take these pages?” he asked. “I want to show them to someone. Would that be okay?”

I nodded, speechless. Gently he tore out the two pages from my diary, so it didn’t spoil the whole book. “I will bring it back,” he said. He left soon after, and I noticed he had folded my pages carefully and put them into his pocket.

Tell us: Why do you think Vika has taken Ntombi’s writings about Bulelani?