“There’s nothing wrong with that at all,” Nolitha said. “It’s what so many people have been trying to change, for you, for university students, for anyone who wants the chance to learn.” She told them about all the meetings Jama and Nombeko and she had attended, how she’d been called on to describe the conditions at her school, the petitions they’d made to the Department of Education.

“What did they say, Miss?”

“Nothing.” Nolitha’s voice was bleak. “Absolutely nothing. That’s why protests and demonstrations happen. People become tired of waiting while nothing changes.”

“And thieves like Mahlangu get richer and richer.” Khanyiswa’s voice was equally bleak.

“Yi-creep,” Bonelwa said.

“Yes,” Fungile said. “Pity we don’t have a trap and some cheese.”

“I wonder how the others are, Miss,” Dalumuzi said. “They aren’t lucky enough to have you with them.”

“But they have each other,” Nolitha said. “I can’t tell you how proud I am of my students today. Did you see how Mandla pushed himself in front of a Grade 8, and the cop grabbed him instead?”

Mandla ducked his head. “The Grade 8s are new at the school. We have to protect them.”

“And Cebo, Miss. He was yelling, ‘A Grade 12 in every van.’”

Babalwa lifted her head. “It’s just a pity … Why does something like this have to happen in the first place?”

So many students to worry about. Nolitha rubbed her eyes. They were still stinging from the tear gas. A stun grenade had gone off right next to her head. She’d never forget the sound of it – the way the crunch of metal on metal in a car crash never leaves you.

“The bastards are supposed to roll them along the ground,” Nombeko had said after one of the demos last year. “Roll them and give people a chance to move back, disperse, before they explode. Fat chance of that. They’re even chucking them out of helicopters now.”

The police had used rubber bullets too. If there was a burn victim in Nolitha’s van, others were bound to be injured too.

“Miss, they’re treating us like criminals, but we’re not, are we?” Babalwa sniffed loudly.

“Of course we aren’t, Babs!” Khanyiswa patted her friend’s hand. “All we did was speak up. They’re the criminals, the corrupt ones, not us.”

“But, my father. He’s going to kill me when he hears what I’ve done.” Babalwa sniffed.

“Wenze ntoni, Babalwa? What did you do, Babalwa?” Nolitha knew she had to be gentle now, but firm.

“I stood with everyone and shouted. I said Mr Mahlangu was a thief.”

“And is there anything wrong with shouting if you are angry?”

“No, Miss, but—”

Nolitha interrupted again. “What about Mr Mahlangu? Is he a thief? Did you speak the truth?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what, Babs?” Fungile wheezed. “He took our money, money we had spent months collecting. For ntoni? And for what?”

“Ndiyayazi. I know.” Babalwa still looked miserable.

“Give your dad a chance, Babalwa,” Nolitha said quietly. “If you explain, he might be more sympathetic than you think.”

The van swerved around a corner, throwing them on top of each other. Nolitha sat up straight, her face angry. Who did these men think they were? What put them outside the law? What right did they have to scare her students, deny them medical treatment?

Anger rose, red hot, burning her gut.

She took a deep breath, and heard Jama’s voice low and compelling in her head. “Dignity at all times, comrades.” They’d been on the lawn outside the Arts Faculty, sitting in a circle around him, as he talked them through the protests planned for the next day. Nolitha remembered how he’d sat, loose-limbed and relaxed, his shoulders broad under a simple white T-shirt. The sun slanted off his high cheekbones, caught the tips of his dreads. He was tired, exhausted by a day spent encouraging students, negotiating with the police, organising yet another petition to be delivered to the vice-chancellor.

“We will show them they cannot cheat us and lie to us and deny us what is rightfully ours. But we will not sink to their level. We will face them with courage and fortitude, because we know our cause is just.”

Nolitha looked up. Her students were watching her, listening, and she realised she had been speaking aloud.

“They have no right to treat us like this,” she said firmly. “None. I’ll tell your parents if you want me to, Babalwa, but you tell them too. Tell them what happened. Tell them why we are all so upset.”

***

Tell us what you think: People have the right to gather and protest, but it is also the duty of the police to maintain Law and Order. Can you see a way of balancing these two issues? What happens when either side over-reacts?