My place! I think quickly. There is no way I can bear to see my auntie plastering Nomhle to the wall with a gale force of words about how sweet I am underneath, not a trouble maker like my mother says; how beautiful I could be if only I would wear dresses.

My auntie will tell Nomhle how her little boy got caught up in drugs but the angels rescued him from the hell of addiction and how she can’t understand it because she loved him so much. And she will say this all with a crazy, detached smile, when she should be weeping. The madness of Auntie Sesethu would just be embarrassing.

I shake my head. “Not my place, I’m sorry,” I say to Nomhle. “There’s nowhere to talk.” It’s not an outright lie. We wouldn’t be able to finish a sentence without Auntie interrupting.

“Umm …” Nomhle looks away at the empty chairs as if they could tell her how to find common ground with someone like me. She smiles stiffly. “It will have to be my place then. At four?”

I nod. “Radebe Street?” I say, before I can think.

“You know where I live?”

“It’s on my way to the bus stop.”

I don’t say that I deliberately walked past her house once because I was fascinated to see how nice girls live. I don’t say I stopped to stare at their perfect poppies, their clothes on the line that looked like they had never been worn more than once. Miss Perfect’s father was painting the garage door a bright yellow, while good gospel music flowed from inside the house. They probably have a nice car in that garage, I remember thinking.

Nomhle says now: “Radebe, number 75.” In the corridor, two popular girls from the art class are already waiting for the privilege of walking with Nomhle. She doesn’t say goodbye. So I don’t, either.

I go home and change into a dark green tracksuit, the colour of the spinach I grow on the weekend. My auntie is home early from the nursery. She gives me bread with cabbage salad, and watches me eat.

“If it crunches, it keeps you young,” she says, pleased. Where she gets that, I do not know. I make the mistake of mentioning the two-person play.

“Oh yes, Nomhle Nkwali.” My auntie is impressed. “I know her parents. Her father is a deacon in the church.”

“What does a deacon do?”

“He organises the whole church so the minister can work with God and heal his people. He is a man who leads a good life; no drugs, no alcohol. Good marriage. It’s a big, big honour to be a deacon …”

Fantastic, I think as Auntie talks on. More reasons to feel like I shouldn’t even grace Nomhle’s doorstep. I check the clock. Quarter to four.

I run my fingers through my hair in front of the mirror. It is soft and fluffy and highly unfashionable.

“Will you come home straight away?” Auntie asks. “They’re talking about a march tonight. Something to do with drugs.”

“I don’t do drugs, Auntie.”

“I know, I know – but you don’t want to get in the way. Things can get violent very quickly.”

She’s neurotic, my auntie. But I have to admit it feels quite good to have someone notice if I’m safely home or not.

***

Tell us what you think: Is Auntie fussing too much over Phumza’s safety, or just being a good guardian?