It’s a chilly day in April and I get home from a rough day at college.

My course lecturer had me in his office this afternoon. “Mr Letsapa, are you sure Journalism is the career for you?”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted, sir. To be a journalist. Since I was a kid in primary school.”

He frowns, taps my latest assignment with its big red ‘F’ at the top right-hand corner. “Are you struggling with the work? Do you have problems at home? We have a guidance counsellor if you need to talk.”

“No, Sir, sorry, Sir. I’ll work harder, I swear it. I’ll focus better.”

But when I come home, things get way rougher. Like the stuff of nightmares.

My mama meets me at the door, waving a piece of paper at me.

“Oh Lekoko! It’s going to be a little boy. Why didn’t you tell me, dear? And that Abigail! Such a lovely young girl. So articulate.”

Abigail? She was here? Talking to my mother? Frikken hell! I feel sick.

My mama guides me to sit on the sofa in the lounge. She sits beside me, rubbing my back.

“I’ve always warned you about pre-marital sex, Lekoko. At church we always ask you young people to abstain. But the deed is done now. We must look forward, not backwards. We must deal with the consequences in the best way possible. And I know, my son, that you will do the honourable thing and marry this girl. I know you will want to give your little son a stable, loving family. That is your duty as a decent, upright man.”

She is holding up the piece of paper in front of my eyes. The clinic sonar-gram I suppose. But I can see nothing except dark inky blurs that join up and make a wall of blackness.

A wall of blackness that blocks out the light. That blocks out the sweet, lovely face of Precious.

What can I tell you about Precious?

She is also a first-year student, studying Social Work. But I wonder if she will make it, despite the As she gets for assignments. She is just too soft-hearted. She can’t bear to see anyone hurting or in pain or distressed.

Or maybe I should explain that I’m in love with her? From the first moment I saw her. So in love that when I see her walking down the corridors or sitting out on the grass with her friends, my heart disintegrates into powder.

But why should I tell you this – since I haven’t even told her? How can I possibly tell her? How can I drag her into the disgusting foul sewage swamp that my life has become?

Yet maybe she can see in my eyes how much I love her?

Often she comes across to talk to me: on the stairs, in the college canteen.

Often she asks me, “What is wrong, Lex? I can see you’re hurting. I wish you’d tell me. I wish you’d let me help you.” Then she puts her soft hand on my arm so that my skin feels like ice cream melting in warm sunshine.

***

Tell us: Will Lex be able to tell Precious about his problem?