I throw my bag down at the door. I grab a bone from the morning pot, chew on it. Scoop more pap into my cheeks. I eat hungrily, the same food we’ve eaten for three days running. Before I can help myself I have finished it all.

I drop the lid, shut it, still hungry.

I drink two glasses of water to fill the pit.

I throw myself on the sofa. Pull out my homework. But there’s no point if I’m dropping out.

I let my book slide to the floor. I kick at it. Stare at the shoe print on the comprehension I’m supposed to complete. I bend down, wipe it clean.

I’ll miss school. I know I will.

But I’ve got to work for a year somewhere; save up. Then Xola and I can climb out of this hand-to-mouth life. Limbo, they call it in English. Not here, not there. Stuck somewhere. Useless.

I go outside, watch the street. Plan how I’m going to say it all to Xola. ‘We’ll make your plan happen, Xola. I mean, it’s watertight.’

Her business plan got her second place in her business college. The scheme was to buy an old caravan on Gumtree or something, get her boss Kanelo to build up two computers for two grand each, then travel round the rural Eastern Cape, drift in the range of the internet. Let people come out of their homes, pay forty rand an hour to see their loved ones on the screen, talk to them on Skype. The mission is to make decent money while helping to heal the split caused by migrant work.

I’ll remind her: ‘Come on, Xola. Our own mother died on a long-distance taxi, trying to connect with us’.

Again and again I rehearse my words. But my sister is late. Her friend Azila slouches towards me instead. “Hey Babalwa. Not your day to fetch the baby?”

“Uh, uh.”

It’s a grumpy day today. Like me, Azila is full of shadows on this bright afternoon. She sweeps into our shack, nearly stands on my school books. I scoop them up.

“They work me to nothing.” She too pours herself water, drinks it like the laundry where she works has sucked her dry. “I’m thinking of quitting. I met this guy who said I can make in six weeks what I now make in six months. I’m thinking of it.”

My ears prick up.

“You look after kids in the rich parts of Joburg for the school holidays. Au pair.”

She savours the French word like she is eating something fancy.

“Four hundred a day, six days a week.”

I do the maths quickly. “That’s thirteen thousand rand!” I nearly shout. My heart beats hard like I have been sprinting. “Who is this guy?” I ask.

“He’s cool. You interested?”

My head nods like it’s stuck on the ‘yes’ setting’. “Please Azila,” I actually beg. It all comes gushing out; how I was just thinking of leaving school, but if I can make that in six weeks, I won’t have to…

Azila is shaking her head violently. “You can’t leave school, your sister will freak.”

She pulls out her phone, taps on it. “Hi, it’s Azila. I met you outside the café yesterday? … My friend’s sister, Babalwa, is very keen. She’s used to kids; she’s very switched on. She’s very, very keen.” A pause. “Sweet.”

She passes the phone to me.

The man is confident, breezy. “Hey girl, let’s talk face to face. Where do you live?”

Somewhere inside I feel uneasy. But I clear my throat, give my address to a man I’ve never seen.

Azila leaves.

Later, Xola trails in from her job at the internet shack. Her eyes are red and tired. “When I fetched her, her nappy was wet, wet, wet.” She shakes her head. “I need to find a better crèche.”

She tries to separate from the baby but Thandi clings on like a monkey. I clap my hands, hold them out. “Come Thandi,” I sing. She lurches towards me, swaps her mother’s fatigue for my bright smile. I bounce Thandi’s wet bum on my hip, sing “Sies, sies, sies!”

“What’s up with you? You in love or something?”

As Xola lifts the pot lid I talk quickly, cover up the fact that I have guzzled our supper. “I don’t want to get excited about nothing but…” I begin and babble out the opportunity that Azila told me about.

She stares at me over her baby’s soft shoulder.

“Is it safe? I mean, it is real?”

“What can happen? Seriously.”

I mention the figures, distract her with the mathematics. I watch as her worry turns to huge hope.

“Wow! Really?”

She lifts the baby up, kisses Thandi’s soft stomach. “Oh, God.” Her words are a mix of a prayer and a plea. “I’m scared to hope.” She looks around. “Where is he?”

I laugh. “He’s coming Wednesday. Azila’s organized it.”

*****

Liwa is his name. He has a rough complexion but a beautiful grin. He arrives earlier than he said. He is fit, springy, in his purple track suit pulled low off his bum like a cool dude, but not so low as to diss society. His brand new Nike’s gleam white on his feet. He is a businessman, for sure. Those Nikes are not cheap.

He sits down in the shack, looks around. His eyes find my sister’s shining trophy. “Yours, Babi?” He goes straight to shortened version of my name.

I laugh. “My sister came first in business school.” I add, somewhat sadly, “But she fell pregnant at the end.”

“But not you, hey Babi?” I shake my head vigorously.

I start to tell him about the cool dreams we have, about the Skype caravan but Liwa is not listening. He is jiggling his leg, watching my throat, his eyes sliding down to my shirt buttons, checking my breasts.

He nods, “You’re good for this.”

I stare at him blank; surprised. He has asked me nothing about my child care experience.

***

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