The weal on the girl’s leg was angry, raw and red. The burn from the stun grenade was deep, and several layers of skin had been burned away.

Nolitha banged again on the partition dividing the van from the cab.

“There’s a girl who needs attention here. You’ve got to take us to the station, now! Ngoku, uyeva! Now, do you hear!”

“Fungile too, Miss,” said Bonelwa. “He’s going to need his pump. He’s pretty stressed.”

Fungile looked up and smiled. “I’m okay, Miss,” he said, but Nolitha could hear the rattle in his breath.

She looked at her watch again. Surely they had to stop soon? They couldn’t be as cruel as to keep a bunch of kids and their teacher cooped up in this space, thrown around like sacks of potatoes.

She needed to check her phone, see if her messages had gone through to Jama and Nombeko. She’d WhatsApped them the moment everything started, and again when they’d been bundled into the van.

But what could she tell them now? She had no clue where they were, nor how soon they’d get to the police station. Which police station, though? And once they got there, who was to say they’d be processed properly? She’d heard too many horror stories about justice being ignored. Her friends had to get moving, get help, be waiting for them when they arrived. And not just them – she’d seen four other vans at the scene, students being hustled into them. Where were they? What was happening to them? One of them, Thukile, had only just come back to school after his brother’s death. Was he okay? And then there was Ziyanda; she had to get home to look after her younger brothers and sisters so that her mother could get to work. “Shift work as a cleaner,” the young girl had told her. “If she misses a shift she doesn’t get paid. Kuphelile ngaye! It’s over for her!”

Nolitha looked at her watch. So much had happened since just before nine that morning, when she’d knocked on Mr Mahlangu’s door.

Tuesday, 9 February 2016

8.50 a.m.

“One minute.” There was a pause and then a scuffling noise. Then, “Ngena. Come in.” Mr Mahlangu’s voice sounded fuzzy.

Probably sleeping again, Nolitha thought as she pushed the door open. Their beloved principal wasn’t given to doing much work, and usually when his door was closed his staff knew better than to disturb him. But Nolitha had promised to let her class know exactly how much money they had raised, and how much more they would need to buy the bookcase. “You buy it; I’ll make sure we fill it,” she’d said to them. “It will be a wonderful gift to the school.”

It had all been Mandla’s idea. “The Matrics used to do it, Miss,” he’d said. “My brother told me. They collected money for a gift to the school. They haven’t done it since Mr Mahlangu’s been here though. But we could do it, Miss, couldn’t we?”

“It’s a brilliant idea, Mandla,” Nolitha said. “Let’s run it by the rest of the class and see what they think.”

The Matrics had been enthusiastic.

“It will be good for the school to know that we were here,” said Cebisa, “that we cared enough to give something to the school.”

“Yes, but what?” Andisiwe’s voice was quiet, but the class always listened when she spoke. “It must mean something. It must be something useful, not some stupid ornament that Mr Mahlangu will put in his office.”

There was silence and then Cebo raised his hand. “Books, Miss,” he said. “Let’s give them books.”

“And a bookcase,” Fungile called out.

“But not for Matrics,” Cebo said. “Let’s do it for the Grade 8s.”

A murmur ran through the class as Cebo got to his feet. “Look, guys,” he said, “we’ve been lucky. We’ve had Miss two years in a row. She’s got us reading, and thinking. We have a good chance of passing Matric English, even after having Nyathi for two years.”

The class laughed.

“But the kids in Grade 8 …” Cebo’s face darkened. “They’re stuck with Gogo Hamba.”

This time there was an angry tone to the laughter.

***

Tell us what you think: Do you think it’s a good idea for Matric classes to give a leavers’ gift to their school? What sort of gift would you give?