The next morning all the classes seem longer than usual. It’s two minutes before break and my bag is already packed. Ready to go and finally ‘meet’ Lebo.

“Would Bongani Shongwe report to the Principal’s office! Bongani Shongwe to the Principal’s office. Thank you!” the intercom blares.

I bang the table in frustration and rush to the office, only to find the Principal in a meeting.

I ws called in at de office… see u b4 break ends, promise

I can’t bear thinking about her waiting for me as time ticks by, and still the Principal is busy. I decide to run out and tell her that I’m here but just as I start to walk away from the office the Principal’s door opens.

“You’re not planning on leaving without seeing me, are you Mr Shongwe?”

“No Sir, I was just … uh–”

“Come on in.”

With my tail between my legs I go into the office. Is this the day when I get kicked out of the school? Everything in my mind seems fuzzy. My stomach feels knotted.

“Mr Shongwe, you failed to keep your promise to settle your fees on the agreed da–”

Before he even finishes I am trying to explain. “Sir, my father’s company is on strike, that’s why. I get a bursary from them … that’s why I haven’t paid…” I sit forward, ready to get up to try and explain better how all of this is beyond my control. He cuts me off gently.

“I hear you Mr Shongwe.” He stops and looks at me with pity. “I’m sorry Mr Shongwe but it’s the school’s policy. We don’t accept students who owe the school close to three months of fees. I’m sorry but we have to dismiss you.”

Before I can say anything his phone rings, he looks at me and I know it’s my cue to leave. I feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach over something I didn’t do as I walk down the passage and out to meet Lebo. It makes sense, yet it doesn’t. There’s got to be another way.

I’m starting tests in two weeks’ time. I need to be here. And I have just met Lebo … and … I can’t blink the tears back. I rush to the toilet and wash my face. I try to compose myself then run out to meet Lebo.

“Hey!” I say softly behind her.

“Hey! You’re very … erm … early,” she says, folding her arms.

“It’s still break though,” I say hesitantly.

“And you’re still late.”

“I can make it up to you if you allow me.”

I move closer towards her. She smiles now and lets out a cute giggle that warms my heart and I can’t help but think I just scored her. The bell rings, cutting the moment between us. She grabs her bag.

“Well it was nice meeting you, however short it was,” she says, reaching out for a handshake and brushing her hair from her face with her other hand.

“Hugs suit you better.” I can’t believe I just said that!

She doesn’t move a centimetre. She doesn’t throw herself into my arms as I dreamed of so many times. Instead she flashes me a challenging but flirtatious look over her shoulder as she walks away.

I dance my way to class over what just happened with Lebo. But as I walk into the room and see my desk, reality hits. This won’t be my desk anymore, I think, if I can’t make a plan to pay my fees.

One of Will’s friends is complaining about how his parents are refusing to buy him his own car and instead he has to use one of his mother’s.

I complain in my heart about how unfair life is. For the first time I’m hit by how I don’t fit in at this school amongst these rich kids, regardless of how I have tried to, and have overlooked how ‘different’ I actually am from most of them.

On my way home, my mind is like a rollercoaster, soaring because of Lebo, plummeting because of the fear of leaving school.

“The school dismissed me because I’m owing,” I tell Ma, nearly crying.

“Bongani, let’s wait for your father,” she says calmly.

“Ma, in two weeks I’m writing tests. I need to be at school.”

She looks at me and keeps quiet. Her silence crushes me even further because I know they can’t afford the fees. “We’ll talk to your father,” she says firmly, hurt and angry at the same time.

“Bongani, go to school tomorrow,” my father instructs me after my mom tells him what happened.

“Ngeke bavume Baba (They won’t let me in).”

“Buyela eskolweni. (Go to school.) I’ll make a plan,” he says firmly.

“Baba angeke (Dad, they won’t…)” I tear up, my voice wobbles.

“Lalela ubaba wakho (Listen to your father).” My mom gives me one of her ‘do as I say looks’. There’s silence.

The following morning I get ready for school as I normally do, hoping what I’ve seen happen to other students won’t happen to me. I linger at the corner outside school. I want to be the last one to clock in, to avoid shame. I see the security guard directing the students to enter through the big gate. It means that the clocking system is down.

“God works in mysterious ways.” I recall my mother’s words as I walk to the gate.

I see Lebo approaching the gates from inside the school. I can’t wait to reach her. I wanna grab and kiss her. She smiles at me.

Just when I’m about to walk through the gate the security guard stops us – the clocking system is up again. My heart sinks.

“Yizame futhi (Try again),” I say to the guard.

Lebo is waiting for me on the other side; behind me there’s a long queue of students who are complaining, waiting to clock in.

I grab my student card back from the guard and tell him loud enough for everyone to hear that he must not keep the others waiting, and must let them in before me.

Some students thank me for my ‘thoughtfulness’, especially the girls.

I steal a glimpse at Lebo and she gives me one of those cute puppy looks that scream “Ncoooooh”.

I am feeling like the man when I hear a voice shouting: “Looks like Shongwe got the boot.” It’s Will, from the back of the queue. Laughing.

I signal Lebo to go and that I’ll see her during break. I know this is the time to turn and let my feet quietly carry me home. But I can’t move.

After everyone has clocked in the security guard says, “Sizame futhi? (Should we try again?)” His tone is mocking.

I walk away.

“Ja bafana famba. (Yes boy, go)” he says, shaking his head and laughing as he goes through his file.

On the way home I feel enraged by my father’s persistence that I go to school after I explained what would happen.

I look up as a white van with ‘GOD LOVES YOU’ and a picture of Jesus pointing at me drives past. Whatever, I think and I continue walking.

*****

“Balile ngingene (They refused to let me in)!” I blurt out to my parents when I get home. I have an underlying tone of ‘I told you so.’

“Let’s write them a letter,” my father suggests, sounding helpless. He tells me to take out a pen and paper.

“Asibhale i-email,” I tell him.

He gives me a blank stare.

“Incwadi ye computer Baba (Computer letter),” I explain.

My father dictates what I should type.

Just minutes later an email pops back refusing my father’s request.

The following day my father phones and makes an appointment with the Principal’s personal assistant. The soonest he can see him is in two weeks’ time.

Hey btfl sori i cudnt c u 2dae. family crisis.

m @ home

Sooner or later she’ll find out, I think. I decide to come clean.

M @ home bcos i hv outstanding fees. Bursary

stopped making payments cause de company

is on strike. i wnt b @ skul 4 2 weeks…

i mis u (kiss smiley)

After school she replies:

M so sorry 2 hear that. i hope thngs get sorted out soon

i mis seeing you. i wil b waiting 4 u (smiley)

Her reply warms my heart and I fall for her even harder. But that feeling is quickly replaced by thoughts of other boys, even Ivan, making a move on her while I’m away. The stress and pain of not being able to go to school and see Lebo seems unbearable.

***

Tell us what you think: Is Bongani’s father right to keep trying to speak to the school?