Later that day, I could not keep my eyes off Boeta at youth practice. I watched him laughing with his friends, hands in his white pants’ side pockets and blue tucked-in shirt. Father Williams brought along a camera and we all stood huddled up together trying to get into the picture. The boys were sitting on their knees with big afros, the girls with pastel-coloured cardigans, and, of course, Lennie, the youth league’s clown, lying on his side, with his tongue sticking out.

Everyone was busy playing dominoes and cards when Boeta asked if he could have a word outside. I could see Adam sticking his elbow into Paul’s ribs, but I tried to give them no attention. We went out the back and stood in the corner between the toilets and the big guava tree. It was quiet and the night air was warm and there was not a single cloud in the sky.

I was shivering so badly, not because I was cold, but because I was so nervous. He gave me his leather jacket. ‘Daarso, just like Michael Jackson’s.’

‘Boeta?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think we will always recognise each other like we do now? Even after I go to Wellington?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s just that this, what we have… I don’t even know what to call it–’

‘Love,’ he interrupted.

‘Yes, love,’ I agreed, half-smiling. Suddenly my smile disappeared, ‘Boeta, I don’t want to keep this secret anymore. It feels wrong to lie to Ma.’

‘I agree, so what do we do?’

‘I don’t know Boeta, really I don’t.’

‘Well, if she chases you away you can stay with us.’

‘No, that would break Ma’s heart. You know how she feels about your family.’

‘So keep the secret rather?’

‘Yes, let’s.’

Two more weeks passed. Boeta and I saw each other whenever we could. Soon it would be time for me to leave for Wellington. I had already packed my suitcase along with my diary, my photo album, Ouma’s brooch and the photo of the youth league. I had pushed it under my bed, out of Ma’s sight. I hadn’t yet found the courage to tell her about the bursary, but I wrote her a letter explaining why I was going. I was checking the suitcase was still out of sight when Ma called me from the back.

‘Would you do the groceries today? The list is on the kitchen table.’

‘Yes, Ma.’

She went on tending to her asters, Stink Afrikaners and daisies.

Ma is totally unaware of me and my new life waiting for me and Boeta, I thought as I walked to the shop. We, her three children, always knew not to ask questions, just trust and obey, I thought. Ma can keep her secrets. I don’t want to know why she doesn’t like the Groenewalds. I looked down at the shopping list. Fish oil, butter, eggs, sugar and some moer koffie, the usual stuff, and, of course, some sunlight soap, always on the list. Ma washes every day of her life. When I got home, Ma was sitting in the living room with a letter lying on the table.

‘Who is this boy writing to you?’

‘Where did Ma get that?’

‘Count your words, girlie. Don’t play around. If you want to screw around, you do that under your own roof, not under my roof. Do you want to end up like your sisters? They put me to shame.’

‘It’s not like that Ma,’ I said. ‘We are not… he is a kind person, he makes me happy.’

‘I want to meet this Boeta. Invite him over for dinner.’

‘Yes ma, you will like him, he lives in–’

‘I am sure he can explain himself to me and also explain why he did not have the decency to ask me for permission.’

I ran out of the house towards Dempers Street, no.2. When I got to the house, Boeta’s father was standing over the hekkie, smoking tobacco out of his pipe.

‘Good afternoon Uncle Ouboeta, is Boeta home?’

‘Sak Sarel, Gedorie, don’t choke on your spit. Boeta is not here, girlie. He went to Hermanus for that building job. He is planning on learning from the boss himself.’

‘When will he be back, Oom?’

‘Six or seven I think, yes six or seven.’

‘Uhm, my ma invited him to dinner.’

‘Né? Julle klogoed van vandag,’ he chuckled.

 ***

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