Azile doesn’t back off when I tell her I’m staying clean.

“You’d better be,” she says, “or you’ll be out of the Lephoko Soccer Club. My father started it to give kids a second chance; that’s how come the rehab people introduced you to him. But he doesn’t give third chances.”

“I know.” I move my shoulders around. “He doesn’t have to worry. I never want to go back to being the disgusting person I was before. The rehab was hell, nearly killed me, but afterwards … I couldn’t believe some of the things I’d done.”

Things I hate to think of because they make me ashamed. Things I’d be even more ashamed to have Azile knowing – except that at rehab they showed us that we needed to see ourselves clearly, and own what we are.

I look at Azile, so gorgeous and healthy in her cut-offs and strappy top, and I breathe in the scent she wears that’s like a mix of honey and sweet spices. She’s never been a sweating, shaking, stinking mess, stealing and threatening, doing anything to get the money to buy the escape, the release, the good feeling.

She’s looking at me like she’s going to ask me a question, and I’m going to have to tell her what a shit I am, because lying is part of that person I used to be, so I can’t do it anymore. I have to be honest.

Then there’s a movement up ahead in the road, a man walking towards us. Azile is distracted, and I see a worried little crease forming across the bridge of her nose. There’s something nervous, or defensive, about the way she folds her arms across her body. Or maybe she’s just cold – except that it never gets that cold here.

“I can walk with you to your friend’s house,” I offer, and see her relax. “Thandeka’s place, right? She’s always lived in this street. We used to play together when we were little kids.”

Little kids, so innocent.

“Thanks, Lukaya.” Azile’s smiling as we start walking. “I’ll tell Papa what a gentleman you are.” There’s a pause then she asks, “How are you finding it, being back at school?”

“Tough. The rehab people arranged classes for us, but I mostly wasn’t taking in much. I’m so behind, but at least they aren’t making me repeat Grade 9.”

As we pass the young man who made Azile nervous, a shock of recognition slams into me. Short but muscular, long braids tied back in a ponytail. He doesn’t look at us.

“Hey,” Azile whispers urgently when he’s past. “Wasn’t that …? He used to hang around outside the primary school years ago. Joseph America, they called him, because of his accent, but he’s local.”

“And one of the people who got me and my brother into drugs … my big brother who was supposed to be looking out for me.”

I can’t help the bitterness. It’s partly to do with how Msila could stay with the soft stuff and never had to turn into the monster that I became. Man, he hardly even drinks. It’s just weed with him. He never has to beg for, plead for, threaten for, more and more cash like I used to.

Azile and I both glance back in the direction Joseph America has taken. I get another shock. He has stopped outside my house. He doesn’t go to the door, just stands outside and whistles loudly. Once.

Curiosity and has us standing, staring. Stupid of us, most like. After a few seconds, the front door opens, a slice of light stabbing the ground as far as the road. Two figures slip out and join Joseph. Msila and Slider.

 ***

Tell us: What can be done about drug dealers hanging around schools, getting kids started on using?