The soil was damp that morning and the air above it was dressed in a thick mist that spread across the street like a blanket. It made it hard for those who were already up and about the streets of as they made their way to their menial jobs, or back home from a busy weekend of hard partying. The rain from last night had turned into drizzle but still the street was a pool and the water flowed down the cracks in the road, collecting rubble along its way to Jack’s house at the end of the street.

Their dilapidated RDP house had blobs of damp on the walls, almost erasing its original peach color. On top of the roof, two tyres were holding tiles in place. Cold air seeped in through the half-open windows of the Khumalo household. The breeze hit Jack’s cheeks. Even with the sting of the cold, his eyes were fixed on the lump of porridge that he was digging through with a silver spoon. The thick maize meal with Rama spilt on his school jersey and he wiped it off without a struggle.

As he gobbled up his breakfast, his sister disturbed him with a smack on the head and pulled his dreadlocks, almost taking them off his skull.

“Where’s my money, you scumbag?” Her voice echoed into their mother’s bedroom behind the sitting-room curtain.

Jack shrugged.

She let go of him, her eyes turning red from tears that disturbed her cheap mascara. The mess cascaded down her plump cheeks.

“I didn’t take it, Kea, geez!” Jack threw his arms into the air. 

Kea was not buying his act.

“OK, search me then!! Search me, Kea, search m—”

“Hey man, stop fighting! Stop it this instant!” the matriarch commanded from behind the curtain.

“But Mama, how am I going to get to the interview if he stole my taxi money?” Kea cried out to their mother, who now stood in front of them with her hands resting on her hips, foot tapping soundlessly on the polished floor.

“I swear, Mama, I did not take any money from her purse,” Jack pleaded, but the room was unconvinced. 

“You know, Jack, you’ll send me to an early grave — maybe that’s what you want…to see me dead, hey. Last week it was her iPad, now her money. What’s next, Jack? You tell me so that I can hide things from you early now!” Her voice was starting to break.

Kea’s child, Sbo, came running towards the noise, almost colliding with the table legs. He was dragging his mother’s bag. “Mama taxi go…go!” he cried, waving a R50 note. He was not given any attention, and his face turned to the window, witnessing the first rays of the summer sun hitting the vegetable patch and scorching the dew off the leaves of the mango tree. He turned back to his anxious mother, his annoyed grandmother, and his uncle in his school uniform grinning at the two ladies in front of him.

Sbo jerked his mama’s foot and cried, “Mama taxi money…let’s go!”

“Now there’s your money, Keabetswe!” Jack said, as he reached out for his school bag. There was a cold silence in the room and the walls seemed to be closing in on them.

“There’s a R50 under the bread tin for you, mfanam,” his mother said, cutting through the silence.

Jack took it and headed for the door, but as he was about to go out, his mother stopped him. “And how is school going?”

All he could do was freeze and stare into her eyes, his heart fighting his chest. “School is fine, Mama…Grade 11 is difficult…but…but…I’m trying my best.” He fidgeted with the locks on the door, searching for a way out of this heat.

“Oh OK, I will ask your teacher Flo from church to assist you with your schoolwork…how is that?”

There was a whistle outside. It was Bongani signalling for his friend to come out so they could go to school.

“It’s OK, Ma,” Jack said, as he stormed out.

His mother’s face told the sad story of a street vendor that barely managed to feed her family but tried her best. His sister’s face told the story of a nursing graduate sitting at home because of unemployment. Sbo just drove his mommy’s bag around the tiny house.

“Maybe he’ll become better than all of us,” Kea said, picking Sbo up.

Her mother smiled with a heavy heart. “Maybe.”

Kea went to dress Sbo. She opened the curtain. Outside, she saw her brother unbuttoning his school shirt and puffing a cigarette, passing it to Bongani. She watched the two 16-year-olds walk to the taxi rank with their cigarette, people looking at them with sour facial expressions. She knew neither of them would make it to school on that day. She looked at their mother packing avocados into a crate, readying herself for a day at her stall down the road.

The day was going to be long.

Tell us: Do you think Kea should have reported to her mother that her little brother is smoking?