True to her word, Auntie Sesethu gets up before dawn to go and speak to the street committee leader. She arrives back at six, her eyes shining. “Your house is still standing! They put the fire out so it didn’t burn up the township. Bongi says no-one will worry you. He says you must go and get your things.”

We each carry an empty crate to seventy-five Radebe Street. The poppies are still boasting of their beauty. The white cat poses on the bin as if nothing has happened! “My baby …” Nomhle sweeps it up and cuddles it. Luzuko opens the door.

We all cough and choke from the smoke still trapped in the house. My sensitive nose picks up the evil stink of the chemicals they used to make tik. We quickly pulls our shirts over our mouths, filter the smoke. The lounge is covered with greasy black stuff from the smoke.

The inside wall of the garage is just a pile of burnt bricks. Beyond it the garage is a broken black shell, no sign of a vehicle. I stare at the burnt metal counter with its torn up tanks, its blackened glass bottles, most of them in shards. Pieces of charred rubber tubing somehow survived the fire. Nomhle whimpers like a puppy as she picks her way to her bedroom.

I help Nomhle find her ID book among some study aids. I watch her pack her nail kit, her clothes, her books. I pick up a photograph of Nomhle and her mother hugging each other.

“What about this?” I know there’s no way on earth a person can simply stop loving their mother. Nomhle wraps the photo carefully in a jersey. She fetches her special face wash from the bathroom.

Outside, Luzuko has packed some books into his crate, all of them as thick as a tree. He has squashed some clothes around them, squeezed in some shoes. He balances it all on a bicycle, filthy black from the fire. He calls the cat to follow us, “Kitty.” She actually listens. To my amazement the handsome white cat follows us past all the strange dogs and stampeding children.

When we get to my Auntie’s, Luzu scrubs his bicycle with sunlight soap. “I’ll miss first lecture,” he says. “But I’ve got to get there for my Latin test.”

Never mind that his life is in greasy black ruins, this boy is actually going to cycle all the way to Fish Hoek and catch a train to university. I am utterly blown away by his courage.

He looks past me at his sister. “Come on, Nomhle. Get into your school uniform. We can’t let this break us.”

Auntie says, “He is right. Come.” She irons the creases from Nomhle’s crushed uniform. I too get ready to face the day.

In assembly Nomhle climbs the stairs to the stage to read the bible verse. Some children titter.

“Tik merchant,” someone whispers. They must have heard about last night’s attack! Nomhle stumbles against the top step, deeply ashamed. She clings to the podium, keeps her head up.

“Tsotsi,” a boy mutters, two rows from me. It is Sipho, in Grade 12 B.

***

Tell us what you think: Will Nomhle be able to stand the insults and remain at school to write her finals?