The next day my mother came back tired and late from work. I had fetched Sipho from crèche ages ago. “Ntombi, make me some tea,” she sighed, as she settled down and put her swollen feet up on a chair in front of her. “I had to take the little kids to the park,” she said. “It felt even further than usual today.” Then she smiled. “But Charlotte had a lovely time.”

Charlotte. With her big blue eyes and her cute little white girl curls. I hated it when my mother talked about her. I suppose I was jealous. My mother should be at home with me, or taking Sipho to the park, not wiping another child’s bottom. Bulelani was right. Things were not fair.

There was a knock at the door. I went to open it. There was Vika, Bulelani’s best friend, his glasses and his smile twinkling. “Good evening, beautiful Ntombi. How long has it been since I saw you last?” He had always been Bulelani’s best friend. And even though he was part of the meetings now, he still could joke and tease.

“Too long,” I laughed. “We’ve been missing you.”

“I hope you’re not coming to take my son away again,” my mother said. “Never home, that boy. And your mother says the same. You boys are looking for trouble.”

“Don’t worry about us, Mama,” Vika said. “We can look after ourselves, I promise. And speaking of my mother,” he said, and rummaged in his bag, “she sent you these.” He put a packet of the homemade sugar biscuits that his mother was famed for, on our table. “Make sure you don’t let Bulelani eat all of them.”

“Bulelani does anything he pleases these days,” my mother grumbled. “But tell your mother thank you. She is too kind.”

And soon, as my mother had predicted, the two boys left to go into the darkening evening. After supper, my mother switched on the radio. There were reports of riots and shootings. It felt like the world had gone mad. My mother switched it off quickly. I went to bed early but did not sleep until I heard Bulelani come home late that night.

***

Tell us: Who do you sympathise most with here, Bulelani, or his mother? Why?