The next morning the instruction was sent out: we were all meant to go to town, for a demonstration there. Bulelani told us, his eyes alight with purpose, and went off to find the other leaders.

“Wear your school uniform,” he called back to me as he left. “The police are saying that it is agitators, not students. We want to show them who we are.” He clenched his fist in the salute. “We are making history!” he said, and went out into the chilly morning.

“You can’t go,” my mother said. “It’s dangerous. They are shooting with real guns, these police. They are mad.”

“I need to go,” I answered. Bulelani had spoken as if there was no question. How could I stay back, and let others risk their lives for what was my freedom too?

“Don’t go, Ntombi,” my mother begged. Sipho heard her words and came to put his arms around my legs. “Don’t go, Ntombi,” he repeated. “Stay with me.”

“Ntombi, Bulelani is going to be in the front, you know him,” said my mother. She came over to me, stroked my hair. “I would die if anything happened to you too.”

My mother didn’t often touch me so gently. But that wasn’t the reason I knew I would stay. I was too terrified to go. I would be sick – those terrible white men with their guns, the burning air, the screams. I would die if they caught me, I would die if they shot me. And I felt a sick shame at my cowardice.

“I will stay, Mama,” I said slowly.

But I couldn’t even feel a puff of joy at the relief on her face. Because it made me feel worse. I was pretending to be kind, to hide being a coward.

The day passed slowly. I had to help my mother clean and cook, and also play with Sipho, as his school was closed too. I didn’t go out. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I didn’t want to think of what Bulelani would say when he heard I didn’t go.

The township was eerily silent and empty. Most of the young people had gone to town. And others stayed in their houses. During the morning, there were a few police vans cruising, but they disappeared, probably when they realised where the real trouble really was.

Then in the afternoon we heard the rumble of feet, of voices, of people coming back from town. My mother went over to Mrs Dlokweni, and came back with stories of teargas, shootings, arrests. “They say it was like a war zone,” she told me worriedly. “They are just children!” She shook her head. I hated to see my mother so vulnerable, unprotected. She looked old.

At first, I was glad Bulelani hadn’t come home, so I didn’t have to face him. But then it got later. And then my worry for him got even greater than my shame. My mother grew silent, Sipho started whining. We were all in waiting.

There was a knock at the door. It wouldn’t be Bulelani; he wouldn’t knock. But news perhaps. I rushed to open it. There was Vika. But no smiles, no dimples today. “Is Bulelani here?” he asked, and saw the answer in my face.

My mother rushed up behind me. “What happened? Where is he?”

***

Tell us: Should Ntombi have gone to the march? Why or why not?