“If you can make it?” Khethi’s voice crackles like a fire. “If you feel like it, I suppose you mean? So you’re not really committed to any of it, are you? Doing science, being an aeronautical engineer?”

Committed to her, I know she means, even if she’s not saying it.

“Who are you to demand any sort of commitment from me?” I’m angry at the way she’s judging me, or else I’d be dancing at the idea of her wanting commitment from me.

She makes an angry movement. “It’s not about demanding anything. It’s about having high expectations. I thought you were … someone.”

“What do you mean, ‘someone’?”

“I don’t know. Like someone with a plan.”

It’s like something kicks me. “A man with a plan?”

“Yes, that.” Now she’s starting to sound a bit confused. “But clearly you’re not.”

“You know nothing about me!” I hear how fierce I sound. “Like how there isn’t a parent at home, and the work this man makes me do, so I keep missing school.”

I don’t want to mention the dump.

“But that’s wrong.” She says it very firmly. “Hey, Cebo? I know how tough it must be. There are kids from child-headed households here at this school too. But this man who’s making you miss school to work for him? You have to do something about that. Get help.”

“It’s not so simple–”

“It’s exactly that simple.” She’s not letting me off. “If you really are someone – if you respect yourself, you’ll find a way.”

And in my head I’m hearing the part she’s not saying, that she will only respect me if I do something to change things. She probably sees me as a pathetic, self-pitying victim right now.

I look in the direction Fundi and the others have gone. “I have to go.”

“Quick.” Khethi gets out her phone, a much better one than mine. “Give me your digits.”

“What?” But I tell her my phone number and watch her key it in with a fast thumb. My phone rings in my pocket.

“Now you’ve got my number,” she says over the sound as I pull out my phone. “You can let me know when you really are a man with a plan, and if I’ll be seeing you Friday.”

Then she spins round and rushes off. I stand there staring at her number displayed as a missed call. Khethi’s number! Any other time I’d think it was the most beautiful thing I’ve been given, but now I’m too angry and upset.

Fundi looks at me when I catch up with him.

“Last I saw, things were looking good. So what happened?”

“I told her I couldn’t count on making Friday science,” I tell him.

“Eish. The dump again?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve got to do something, man.”

“I’m sick of people telling me that.”

“You know I’m right,” he says, but at least he leaves it alone after that.

This is turning into another of those up-and-down days. I can’t believe how happy I was such a short time ago.

At soccer practice in the afternoon, it feels as if Coach Phiri is working me extra hard – probably wanting me to prove my commitment.

It hits me then that he and Khethi have both talked about commitment, that they both expect things of me, like they believe in me, believe I can be someone.

Like I believed in myself. Like I still do believe in myself when I’m not letting my problems push me down.

People believe in me. Khethi, Coach – Fundi too, or he wouldn’t have talked to Coach about giving me another chance.

I have to prove them right, and that begins with making things better for myself and Amahle and the little ones.

I’m still angry that I haven’t got a plan. It feels like my brain is chasing itself around in rings when I walk home after soccer. What can I do?

I walk slower as I turn into the road where we live. I can see Toothpick’s house from here, but not the backyard shacks. There’s a woman walking up to the front door. Even from behind, I know its Ms Maseko, the social worker, from that way she has of moving as if she’s very tired but also in a big hurry.

I can start with her.

I don’t think about it or anything. I just walk faster. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do, tell her I think it’s wrong that she’s such close friends with the Sibiyas when they’re making me and Amahle work for them – or demand a different social worker to be our ‘supervising adult’. I don’t know.

Mrs Sibiya lets her in, looking pleased to see her, the first time I’ve ever seen her look happy about anything.

The door is closed by the time I reach it. I shout, “Nco-nco-nco!” but I’m not in the mood to wait for an answer. I try the door and it’s not locked, so I march inside.

“Mama!” one of the Sibiya children screams in fright.

“Cebo?” Ms Maseko was about to sit down in a chair, but she straightens up again when she sees me.

“I think it’s wrong!” I say hard and fast so I don’t lose my courage. “You coming here and being big friends with these people when they can make us do anything they like, my sister and me. Work for them, miss school, so we can keep the shack. You need to send someone else to see us.”

“Keep the shack? You pay rent. I arranged that for you, remember? Cebo, what is this?” Ms Maseko stares at me, then at Mrs Sibiya.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know! You’re such good friends, always visiting here. We see you.”

“But–” Then Ms Maseko just stands there, looking helpless and worried.

“You’re wrong, young man,” Mrs Sibiya says in a slow, sad voice. “She probably can’t tell you because it wouldn’t be proper – telling about my private life – but she visits here as a social worker. You don’t need to know why, but I promise it’s true. She knows nothing about how my husband makes you work because I’ve had other things to tell her when she visits. Personal things. I didn’t know he was telling you it was so you could keep the shack. I … I don’t know what I thought. Maybe I didn’t want to think about it. The children and me, you know? Our own troubles.”

She’s rubbing her shoulder like it hurts. I think about how the kids cry so much, I see the darkness around her eyes. Maybe I understand.

I look at Ms Maseko. “Sorry,” I say.

“It seems you don’t know enough about your rights, Cebo,” she huffs in the breathless way she has. “I thought you learned about these things in LO.”

“I miss a lot of LO.”

“No more missing any school, no more working for Sibiya. You have a future.” She and Mrs Sibiya have an eye-meet. “Leave it to me. I’ll see to it. It’s time for action, isn’t it, my dear? You’ve been saying you’re ready.”

I’m getting that touch-the-sky feeling again. I don’t know yet how it will happen, or what she’ll do and say, but I know I’m free – free of Toothpick.

I can’t get away at once because we have to talk about reporting Toothpick, and I don’t even want to get away, now I know we can trust Ms Maseko. But as soon as I can, I do two things. I go to the shack and tell Amahle and Wandile the news.

Then I text Khethi to say I’ll see her on Friday for sure.

A smiley face comes back.

Then, after a few more moments, a thumbs-up.

I’d really like a heart. I wait, but maybe it’s too soon. Then it comes, a heart. My fist comes up, punching the air.

It’s my best moment. Until Friday, when we arrive at Khethi’s school and I watch her face opening up into a smile as she sees me. Then she comes towards me, and I swear she’s dancing.

That’s my best moment. So far.

***

Tell us what you think: If Cebo had been younger than sixteen, the social grant for child-headed households would have been difficult to get, and the family might have been split up. Do you think age should be a factor in a case like this?