Three months later.

Dumi looked around the locker room. Everything was in its place. The shower taps were gleaming, the tiles washed clean of soap and shampoo. Each player’s kit was hanging in his locker, ready to be worn for the next practice session. Not the worst job in the world, Dumi thought as he piled the bench he was sitting on high with rugby boots. It had been raining and Dumi had his work cut out for him, cleaning clumps of mud and tightly packed grass from between the cleats of each boot. When he was finished, all he had left to do was wash the floor and mop it dry. He’d have time for a forty-five minute session in the gym and then he’d sprint down to Newlands Station and catch the last train home.

If anyone had asked him, three months ago, whether anything good could possibly have come from the Great Facebook Debacle (that’s what he and Alexa called it) he would have laughed in their faces.

Although he had said bravely that he wanted to meet him face-to-face and apologise, when it actually came to finding his way to Vuyisile Gaba’s house and walking up to his front door and knocking, Dumi had felt his skin grow clammy.

“It’s OK,” Alexa had said. “He can’t hurt you.”

Dumi wasn’t so sure, especially when the door was yanked open and a gargantuan stood in front of him. Vuyisile Gaba was enormous. Dumi had only seen him at a distance when he came to the school; up close he was terrifying. His shoulders filled the doorway and his head brushed the top of the doorway. He was wearing baggy sweatpants but Dumi could see that his thighs were like barrels. Even his feet were huge and broad, and Dumi imagined them digging into the turf at Newlands, settling into the ground, ready to meet the headlong shove of the opposing scrum. Then he imagined those same feet tensing, ready to connect with his own backside and send him sailing over the wall!

“What is it?” The voice sounded like it came from a cavern deep in the earth. Then he took in Dumi’s blazer. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you. Sanele told me you’d both be coming.” He stood back. “Come inside.”

Dumi and Alexa stepped inside and gaped. Vuyisile Gaba’s house was cool. Really cool. A man cave, smart and stylish. The far wall of the room was dominated by an enormous television screen.

“Sit down.”

Dumi and Alexa headed for a low couch upholstered in a pale grey material. It looked modern but it was surprisingly comfortable.

The rugby player sat down opposite them and stared at them for a long minute. “So,” he said eventually.

Dumi cleared his throat. “Mr Gaba,” he said, and his voice sounded like someone had stuck a recorder down his throat and made him blow out on the high notes. He coughed and tried again. “Mr Gaba.” He still sounded nervous.

Vuyisile Gaba said nothing.

“I, we … we’re sorry, Sir. We know there’s nothing we can do to make up for what happened.”

Dumi stopped again. He’d practised this speech over and over in the mirror at home. How he was going to show how truly sorry he was. How he was going to offer to do whatever it took to make it up to his teacher and her boyfriend.

Dumi closed his eyes. Try again, he told himself, and this time, get it right. “Miss Majola, your girlfriend, said you wanted to speak to me.” His voice sounded a little firmer now. “But before you do, Sir, I just want you to know that none of this is Alexa’s fault. She wanted to come with me because she feels responsible for the … uh … the picture of you being on her phone, but none of this is her fault.”

Still Vuyisile Gaba said nothing.

“I’m sorry, Sir. The thing is, my uncle says that in situations like this children under the age of eighteen can be excused for doing something really dumb.” Vuyisile’s face was like a mask. “But he agrees,” Dumi continued, “and my parents do too, that I should do everything I can. Whatever you want…” Still Vuyisile Gaba said nothing and Dumi could feel the words tangling on his tongue. “I knew what I was doing, Sir…” he ended lamely.

“Yes.” Vuyisile Gaba finally spoke. “So I have been told.” He leaned back in his seat and looked at Dumi seriously.

“I know you’re not responsible for the way the picture of me and Miss Majola, particularly Miss Majola, is still all over the internet,” he said. “Your teacher, my girlfriend, tells me you’re a decent kid, who wouldn’t ever want to harm anyone. And I believe her.”

“Yes Sir,” Dumi muttered. He could feel Alexa next to him, her body tense, her breathing shallow. There was no getting away from it, even when he spoke softly Vuyisile Gaba was intimidating.

“But the thing is, Dumi, you’ve caused a lot of heartache with that picture. I know you didn’t mean to, Dumi. But that’s the effect your picture had. But at least you two have the guts to be sorry about what happened. We can work with that. So … here’s what I’m thinking.”

Dumi and Alexa leaned forward.

“I’m going to take Sanele’s word when she says you’re a good kid, Dumi, and we’re going to look at how we can make the best of a bad situation. First of all there’s the small matter of the sort of work you can do – some sort of service to the rugby community would be fitting, I think. Don’t you?”

Dumi nodded eagerly. Finally, something he could do to make things better. He felt the tension drop from his shoulders for the first time since this all began, and the weight that had been pressing on his chest lifted slightly, enough to let his lungs fill with air.

“And then I have an idea about something else.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll do anything you ask me to.”

***

Tell us what you think: What are some of the positive things that have come out of Dumi’s experience in this story?