Silence. The street is quiet. Mthobeli’s mother continues, unspeaking. The air is warm and his armpits are dripping sweat. His mind is racing. He follows, while his mother walks ahead of him, each of her steps getting faster as the house gets closer.

Shut up. Don’t talk to her. You know she won’t answer you. Tea will work. Make her tea when you get home.

His feet are burning but he’ll suffer in silence. After what the Principal said, the last thing his mother needs right now is him crying, being a baby. They’re not far from the house now.

His waving white cane keeps finding rocks half-buried in the gravel road leading to his house. That’s life here in Dordrecht. When he visited Sivuyile in Cape Town the streets were smoother, no gravel. But the roads were too busy: cars and kids everywhere. The kids always stood and stared. He could feel it. Dordrecht is no different in that way. They always stare. Some of the kids in Cape Town even told him the long cane makes him look like an old man.

“You need that cane to show people that you can’t see properly, and to help you figure out what’s ahead of you. Why would you leave it at home and pretend you can see like other people?” That’s what his mother said the last time he tried to convince her that he should leave it at home.

The foggy pictures of the world around him, everything his bad eyes see, continue to flood his mind. Then the words of the doctor trying to explain things to his mother replay in Mthobeli’s mind.

‘Think of a TV with a bad connection, when the antenna is not in the right place. That’s how your son sees things around him. But don’t think of it like a sickness. Think of it as the body not doing everything it’s supposed to do, and everyone around him making it worse by not understanding.’

Mthobeli can still remember sitting on a bench just outside the doctor’s office and trying hard to pretend that the slightly open door didn’t make a difference, that he couldn’t hear them inside, but he could.

Maybe you should try to meet up with parents of other children with disabilities help each other. There are more kids than you think with disabilities – many go overlooked.

The sun is baking down on the dusty street, making the painful walk back from the Principal’s office worse. It had hurt when he said no.

“No money. No space. The school can’t do with any more kids with disabilities for 2016. Sorry.”

It still hurts.

*****

“Hhe, Mthobeli!” a voice calls after him. It’s from one of the houses he’s just passed on his way from the shop. He keeps walking. The voice is unfamiliar and unfriendly, like the bark of an angry dog.

“Come here, kwedin’. I’m calling you.”

He hears the screech of metal followed by a clattering sound. It’s a gate opening and closing. They’re coming after him. He hears another voice calling out.

“Leave the kid alone, guys. He’s done nothing.”

The guys don’t answer. He hears their hard steps hitting the gravel road. They’re running after him.

Run.

He doesn’t run. You’re near your house. They won’t do anything. With his right hand he grips his long cane tighter, and with his left hand the three candles he’s just bought.

The boys catch up. Mthobeli still doesn’t look back. Two of them pass him and turn and come to a stop in front of him, blocking his way. The third one is beside him. Mthobeli recognises one boy: everyone calls him Abosh.

“So blind people can even go to the shop now?” says one boy. “Why didn’t you stop when I called you? Who do you think you are, kwedin’?”

“Even our school is full of them,” says Abosh. “The teams from the other schools laugh at us. They call us amakrokokroko.”

The third one stops laughing and speaks. “Hhe majita, do you see how he’s looking at you? Can he see us?”

The second one waves a finger from left to right, close to Mthobeli’s face. “Ya, he can see. His funny eyes can see my finger.”

Sivuyile. Fight. Run. Do something. Mthobeli tries to push his way past Abosh.

“He’s fighting back! Blind fool boy,” says the third one.

Abosh pushes back and Mthobeli’s heel catches on a half-buried rock. He stumbles, then he falls flat on his back. The ground, the gravel, the half-buried rocks: all give his body painful knocks. His cane falls to one side and the candles to the other.

“What are you doing Abongile?” calls out a girl’s voice from behind him. “Let him go!”

The girl runs up to them. She helps Mthobeli up. Her hand, soft and warm. She picks up the candles from the ground.

“Zimkhitha, this is none of your business. Let it go. Or do you want us to mess with your bone-head little sister? Do you want that?”

“You won’t do that. You know Tata. You know what he’ll do when I tell him about this.”

Abongile backs off. “Mnxim! Don’t think I’m letting this go for that. I’m not scared of your old man. He’s only coming back in July.” Abosh and the other boy back off as well.

Zimkhitha turns to face Mthobeli. She puts her hand gently, comfortingly, on his shoulder. “Those are idiots. I’ll get them back when Tata comes to visit us.”

He can’t help but notice her, his eyes fighting to make her face out clearly. Slender face. Cornrows. Very white teeth. Gentle voice. Big bright eyes.

“I’m Zimkhitha mna. What’s yours?”

“Mthobeli,” he says, still shaken up.

“I remember you from last year at Phandulwazi. Where do you live now?”

“The yellow house at the end of that street,” he says, gesturing towards the T-junction further down. “You go down this street and then you turn left.”

“Mna, I live on this street. But let me walk with you home. What happened to you last year? Did you find another school?”

Mthobeli hesitates. She helped you. Don’t lie to her. “I dropped out … stayed at home. Mama was trying to get me back into Phandulwazi today. But they say they can’t take me.”

“Hayi, Mthobeli. Don’t accept it. Things will change this year. Last year I heard Sis’ Nthabiseng talking with some other teachers about a fundraiser she’s gonna organise. They’ll have more money to buy the stuff you guys need.”

The pair arrive at his house and stand at the front gate.

“I am really interested in this stuff, and you know why? My little sister,” says Zimkhitha. “Just because they can’t see that she has a disability they don’t think she needs special help. They treat her like she’s born stupid. She’s got bad dyslexia – you know – she struggles to even read a sentence. A social worker told us she needs to go to a special school. He said he knows the teachers at Phandulwazi – that they have a lot of work and no time to deal with her. I was so angry at him, ’cause all she needs is a bit of extra help.”

“What did your family do?”

“We didn’t listen. No-one is gonna tell us what to do with Ncumisa, to send her far away.”

Brave. Beautiful. Soft hands.

*****

“Miss Khothe!” calls a voice from behind Nthabiseng. It’s familiar.

She looks back. It’s Ta Sbu, one of the school’s caretakers. She and he have built quite a bond since she arrived. Clearly also feeling the Dordrecht heat, he’s got the jacket-part of his overalls tied around his waist. He’s a sweaty mess, no doubt due to working as hard as he always does to keep things working.

“Ta Sbu, what’s wrong? I don’t usually see you running.”

He comes to a stop next to her. He’s out of breath. He takes a few moments to compose himself, catch his breath. “I … wanted to tell you something, a secret.”

“What secret is that, Ta Sbu?” she asks, intrigued.

“The other teachers, I think they … don’t like you. I heard them say things.”

She doesn’t respond, and simply continues to look at him.

“You look like you don’t believe me. I’m not joking about this. I heard Ms Mtwazi, Miss Zenze and Mr Adams all talking about you.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. I …”

“You’re shocked. I understand. Kodwa it doesn’t change what I heard. They want to get you out of this school. They said you’re making their jobs harder for them.”

“I don’t know what they want from me. All I’m trying to do is make sure everyone cares about the kids with disabilities in their classes. The Department has already shown us it doesn’t. You know what it’s like here – we don’t have the stuff we need to teach. So now they want me to help them hide their secret – that we are not really inclusive?” She shakes her head, disgust at the centre of her mind.

Ta Sbu nods in agreement.

“I just heard the Principal talking this morning, to a kid who was here with his mother. He was here last year but he dropped out. Do you remember him?” the caretaker continues.

She nods. “I saw him this morning. What happened?”

“He told them there’s no more space and the school is struggling.”

She doesn’t respond. Her mind is racing. Things have to change this year. If she has to be the one to light that fire, then that is what she’ll do.

***

Tell us what you think: Is it better for children with disabilities to attend special schools (often boarding schools) or inclusive schools? Why or why not?